By Any Other Name

by Nell Peters

Genres: Thrillers

Synopsis

Emily Kelly cannot believe her luck when she is employed as companion to wealthy old Sir Gerald Ffinche. (OK, luck had nothing to do with it ¿ but all¿s fair in love and job-seeking, right?)



She soon settles in chez Ffinche and builds an excellent rapport with Sir Gerald ¿ but it¿s his son Richard who really interests her, and they quickly become inseparable.



However, it seems their happiness has enraged someone closely associated with the family, and a series of tragic events is set in motion. Subtle clues are left to incriminate Emily and when she determines to expose the real culprit, she is spoiled for choice. As the body count mounts, Emily and Richard ¿ and the police ¿ are perplexed. They¿re clearly looking for someone who projects a mask of sanity to the world whilst being dangerously disturbed: but who?



With a whole shoal of red herrings and a plot that veers from the almost cosy to a taut psychological thriller, By Any Other Name is an enthralling, chilling whodunit.

Release date: February 23, 2015

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 302

Sample

Chapter One

As Emily rushed around, scooping up all the stuff she needed to take to work, an advertisement in the local free paper caught her attention.


Not much to go on, but what could possibly be worse than painting red crescent smiles on toy clowns’ faces day in, day out, until September, she asked herself. Exactly. She ripped out the bottom half of the page, folded it roughly, and shoved it in her bag, before heading out the door at speed.

She’d recently finished the first year of a degree course in Psychology, passing all her assignments with flying colours – much to her tutors’ blatant amazement, her attendance record having won no awards. But without visible (or invisible) means of support, she’d had to take a holiday job in a local toy factory just to survive until her next loan cheque arrived on the doormat. Though the work was mind-numbingly awful, it was all she could get; she hadn’t been there long and, for the third time in as many days, was about to miss the last bus that would deliver her to her paint pot on time.

She forgot all about the ad until lunchtime, when she was sitting eating crisps with Doreen and some of the other women who worked in the paint section.

‘What do you think about this, Dor?’ she asked, waving the scrap of paper under her nose.

Doreen adjusted her half-moon glasses and scrutinised the print. ‘Well, if I was ten years younger …’

‘And the rest!’ scoffed Peroxide Pam, who was reading over Doreen’s shoulder, gnashing her Wrigley’s for all to see and hear.

Doreen pursed her lips, ignoring Pam, ‘As I was saying, if I was ten years younger, Em, I’d apply for it meself – what have you got to lose?’

The arrival of Mr Spinks, their line supervisor, put an end to any further debate.

‘Come, come now, ladies. Idle chatter won’t get the baby bathed – not in a month of Sundays.’ Spinks was a short, round man, a regular sleaze ball, who vastly overestimated the levels of his charisma and importance. ‘The lunch break is finished – now back to your work stations, quick as you can.’ He clapped his raw sausage fingers together, the effort of movement making his chins wobble.

Emily took a moment to suck the last traces of nicotine from her roll-up and stubbed it out on the handy ‘No Smoking’ sign provided – which meant the others left without her and she found herself alone in the locker room, with Spinks blocking the exit. Damn!

‘Well, if it isn’t Miss Smarty-Pants …’ he was getting a little too close for comfort, ‘I don’t know why you think you’re so much cleverer than the rest of us – just because you managed to cheat your way into university, that doesn’t make you any better than me …’ His damp breath was making her hair frizz and she wanted to get away from his horrible disrobing gaze.

Thank goodness Doreen’s antennae were on top form. She reappeared at the end of the dingy corridor, ‘There you are, Em. I wondered where you’d got to – mustn’t waste company time, now must we?’ She smiled ingratiatingly at Spinks, who jumped back from Emily as though she had broken out in seeping plague boils.

He scowled, ‘Very good, Mrs Mason, that’s the Dunkirk spirit. Carry on, now.’

She started to follow Doreen, changed her mind and spun around to face him once more, ‘Actually, Mr Spinks, I’m working here during the vacs to earn money – that’s why everyone works here isn’t it, to earn money? I don’t think of myself as any better or any worse than anyone else – including you.’ She felt Doreen’s sharp tug at her elbow, ‘And the name is Kelly, Emily Kelly – not Smarty-Pants. She left last week, I believe.’ Then she allowed herself to be dragged away.

Spinks stalked off in the opposite direction, gargantuan buttocks flubbing together and one arm held awkwardly behind his back, like Prince Charles. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Wazzock,’ hissed Doreen, not too loudly. ‘Don’t you take no notice of him, Em, Mrs Spinks is probably keeping him on tight rations in the bedroom department.’ She inclined her head and winked a blue-shadowed crêpey eyelid.

‘I’m amazed there is a Mrs Spinks.’ She suffered a gruesome mind’s eye flash of him in the nude – even his spare tyres had spare tyres – which sent shivers up and down her neurological pathways.

‘Oh yeah, right under the thumb he is.’ Doreen was one of those people who seemed to know everything about everybody.

‘Does she have a Seeing Eye dog and a white stick?’

Doreen shrugged, ‘Never met the woman in person, but I saw them out shopping on a Saturday once. She’s one of them scrawny, mean-looking women – probably a terrible nag. And Spinks never brings her along to the Christmas parties.’

‘Lucky escape for her, I imagine?’ she scoffed.

She looked genuinely shocked, ‘You must be joking! It’s the social event of the year round here.’ Emily made a mental note never to sink that low. ‘OK, Miss Smarty-Pants – time we was getting back to our work of national importance.’

Back at the production line, plastic clowns were standing all in a row, waiting for her to make them look happy and appealing and well worth their outrageous price tag. Doreen hitched up her weighty boobs with her equally weighty forearms and waddled off to her seat, her lumpy backside straining to be free of the tight brown overall. As always, she was anxious to catch the beginning of The Archers.

Not being a fan of radio drama, Emily loaded her paintbrush with crimson gloop and settled down to switch off from life in the sweatshop and daydream her way through to clocking-off time. Johnny Depp featured regularly in her fantasy world, and that afternoon she was guest of honour at his sumptuous mansion high in the Hollywood Hills. Dearest Johnny couldn’t do enough for her, waiting on her hand and foot as she soaked up the Californian sun at the side of his turquoise infinity pool, sipping vintage champagne through a sparkly straw.

Her imagination took a detour to that tempting advertisement and the possible scenarios it might throw up. Was it possible a terminally ill Adonis was searching for someone like her to sooth his fevered brow during his final, tragic weeks? As a reward for her unstinting care, he would bequeath to her all his money, plus a controlling share portfolio in a selection of designer dress and shoe shops. Or could it be an eccentric zillionaire sought a beautiful, lithe young woman (such as Emily, obviously) to work an hour a day on his very own Caribbean island? Naturally, her allotted tasks wouldn’t be too taxing – perhaps grooming the guinea pig twice a week, arranging vases of exotic flowers to his satisfaction, pouring just the right amount of expensive, scented bath oil into his hot tub; that sort of thing.

Chapter Two

Emily screwed up the courage to call that evening, from the privacy of her bijou broom cupboard that grossly overstated its capacity by calling itself a bedsit. The voice that answered on the second ring was, disappointingly, female – and terse.

‘Yes?’

She tried to sound like a must-have prospective employee, ‘Oh, hello, I’m calling about your advertisement. Do you think you could give me a few details, please?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not quite the way it works.’ That threw her a bit. ‘Tell me a little about yourself and I will decide if you are remotely suitable – most of the applicants so far have been a complete waste of my time.’ Get you, she thought. ‘Start with your name.’

‘Emily Kelly.’

‘And? … Kindly be succinct.’ She could visualise a tapping foot, gesticulating hands.

‘I’m a mature student and I’ve just finished my first year at uni.’ She began to begrudge the money she was wasting on the call.

‘You are not reading Sociology, I trust – or even worse, Media Studies?’

Emily was tempted to say Morris dancing. ‘Psychology, actually.’

‘Ah, that may be a small point in your favour … how old are you, Miss Kelly?’

Doubts were not creeping, but stomping in wearing jackboots, ‘I’m twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine, in fact.’

‘And you are available for the whole of July and August? That is of paramount importance.’

‘I am, yes, although I have got a temporary job at the moment.’

‘Oh? What is it you are doing?’

‘Err … I’m working in a toy factory, painting smiles on clowns.’ She sensed, rather than heard, a sharp intake of breath. She wondered if she should have glossed over the clowns, so to speak.

‘Mm … What do your parents do, Miss Kelly?’

Duh ? Was she being grilled for a sensitive post in the Secret Service? Was Miss Moneypenny hanging up her staple gun for a spot of R & R? ‘My father is dead – he was a surgeon – and my mother hasn’t worked for years; she was always a stay-at-home mum.’

‘I see. Your mother is a widow then?’

‘Err … yes.’

‘But she’s not dependent upon you, financially or otherwise?’

‘No, not at all.’ She’d be lucky …

‘And your evening telephone number, Miss Kelly?’

‘Could you tell me first what sort of thing I’d be doing?’

‘If I return your call, Miss Kelly, we may discuss my requirements more fully. In the meantime, your number if you please – I have work to do.’

Emily recited the string of digits in monotone; the woman abruptly declined the offer of her mobile number as an alternative – a sensible precaution, she’d thought, since she was always so in-demand socially … not. The conversation was at an end before she realised she didn’t even know the woman’s name, the stuck-up cow. She didn’t hold out any hope at all of being called and resigned herself to dealing with Spinks’ grubby innuendo and lecherous glances for a few more fun-filled weeks. At least Doreen and the ‘girls’ were a good laugh, making the work situation just about bearable – and she was paid much-needed moolah every Friday.

Several evenings later, Emily was revelling in couch potato heaven – transfixed by EastEnders on TV and devouring a packet of chocolate digestives, washed down by cheap red wine. She was not a happy bunny when the phone rang. Having made the effort to grab up the handset before the answerphone butted in, she was really pissed off when the caller remained silent.

‘Hello!’ she repeated, spitting crumbs into the receiver. Still no response, though the line was definitely open. ‘OK, buddy – it’s your money. Get a life, you moron!’ She hung up, muttering something deeply uncomplimentary and probably anatomically impossible about double glazing salesmen and returned her attention to the cliff-hanger ending being acted out on screen. Shortly afterwards the phone rang again and she let the answer machine do its stuff – no message.

Long after the Archers and their cohorts had hung up their pitchforks on Friday afternoon, Emily was swimming with dolphins in an unidentified, tepid ocean. On the deck of a luxury yacht, a stereotypical handsome hunk held her towel and a large cocktail with requisite paper umbrella and cherries, waiting for her to climb out of the water into his arms. She was so entranced by the guy’s rippling muscles, she didn’t register the tannoy announcement:

‘Would Miss Kelly go to the office to take a telephone call. That’s Miss Kelly to the office, please.’

Doreen stretched forward to poke her on the arm with the clean end of her paintbrush, ‘Oi! That’ll be you, Em; ain’t no other Kelly works here.’

She felt like she had been roused too quickly from a deep sleep – or possibly a comatose state – and struggled to regain focus, ‘Wh … what?’

‘Telephone call for you in the office – best hurry up.’

‘Beware the Nasty Gnome,’ cautioned Edna, cackling as Emily passed her fetid corner in Quality Control; when Edna smiled, she bared bad teeth that were the shape and colour of ancient gravestones.

Confused by who could be calling, since she never admitted to anyone where she was forced to earn a crust, she tapped on the office door and then caught sight of Spinks’ silhouette through the frosted glass, the distorted spectre of which sent her heart spiralling south to her faux Doc Martens. Shit! Personal phone calls were strictly verboten – she’d heard they were very much frowned upon, even when someone had died.

‘Come,’ he barked.

Sidling up to a dilapidated desk circa 1902, she hoped she might have morphed invisible. No such luck – she could feel Spinks’ beady little eyes following her every step of the way, boring into her shoulder blades. She lifted a Bakelite receiver and said, ‘Hello?’

‘Miss Kelly?’

‘Speaking.’ She tried and failed to place the posh voice.

‘Ah, good afternoon, Miss Kelly, do please forgive me for disturbing you at work.’

‘No problem,’ she lied, still in ignorance of who was on the other end.

‘We spoke the other evening, regarding the advertisement I placed.’

Of course, old snooty drawers ! She turned away from Spinks and lowered her voice, to test the extent of his eavesdropping skills, ‘Yes, I remember. Err … hello.’

‘Miss Kelly, I’m pleased to advise that your application was one of the most encouraging I received – at least you can string two words together …’ How sweet of you to say so, she thought, ‘I wonder if you would be free to meet with me this evening?’

She mentally rearranged her packed social calendar, ditching cocktails with Prince Harry, ‘Err … I could do that, yes.’ She played it cool, not wanting to sound too keen, or indeed desperate.

‘I believe you are working on the Tudor Industrial Estate?’

‘That’s right …’ She wondered how the hell she could know that.

‘Excellent – The Connaught Hotel is only a few minutes away. Could you be there at, say, five o’clock prompt?’

‘Well, yes, but how did you –’

‘Very good, Miss Kelly; I look forward to meeting you.’

The dialling tone buzzed in her ear to signal the caller was gone – and, dammit, she still didn’t know her name. She heard Spinks tut-tutting at the other side of the room, but ignored him – how was she going to recognise this woman, and how had she tracked her down at work when Emily had given only her home phone number?

She heard movement – Spinks had risen from his reinforced throne and was making his way toward her at surprising speed for a tub of lard.

‘Harrumph, Miss Kelly, do I take it that was a personal call?’

Although a couple of extravagant excuses came to mind, she opted for contrition – just in case she had to stay on at the funny farm for a while longer. ‘I can’t apologise enough, Mr Spinks – I don’t know how they got the number … it won’t happen again, I can assure you.’ She so wanted to attack his sweaty, bald head with a heavy blunt instrument, but managed to control the urge by remembering some strategies she’d learned when studying anger management.

‘As you well know, Miss Kelly …’ if he got any closer, they’d bump bellies, Emily thought, ‘I, in my capacity as executive middle management, do not allow personal telephone calls – no matter what the circumstances.’ He paused briefly to wheeze in some air and she tried to surreptitiously shift her bodyweight backwards, while appearing to hang upon every scintillating word he uttered. ‘But hey, this is Friday, and the weekend starts here – don’t put all your eggs in one basket, Miss Kelly.’ His nose was practically inhaling the button on her overall, boob height – she didn’t like the way this situation was evolving, let alone have a clue what he was on about.

She forced a smile, trying to stay calm, ‘Right … I see … can I get back to work now?’

He grabbed her arm, ‘No real hurry is there? I feel we may have got off on the wrong foot … cup of tea?’ He leered – and she pretended not to notice when he licked his fat lips suggestively. She felt her stomach go into panicky spasms … and she couldn’t understand why there was no one else in the office …

‘I don’t drink tea, thanks – now if you’ll excuse me?’ She reclaimed her arm but when she went to walk away, he started grappling at her buttons. No more pretence – and something told her the repulsive old fool wasn’t going to take rejection lightly.

‘Bitch,’ he growled, ‘do you think I haven’t noticed you looking down your nose at me?’ The guy was like a rabid octopus, arms everywhere – and she couldn’t see any obvious way out of her predicament. He changed tack suddenly, catching her off guard. Looking up at her wearing what she assumed he considered to be his sexiest come-to-bed expression, he wheedled, ‘You’ll find me a dynamic, considerate lover, Miss Kelly … Emily – and I am a most generous man.’ Yeah, right … His reptilian tongue darted out to catch a dribble of spit dangling from his bottom lip – she would have laughed if she weren’t so scared, anticipating what he was leading up to.

Inspiration struck – she tried to keep the wobble from her voice when she told him, ‘I’m sure you’re a real tiger in bed, Mr Spinks …’

‘Call me Bernard,’ he interrupted, wagging a raw sausage back and forth.

Bernard ? ‘No thank you, Mr Spinks – and I’m afraid your sexual prowess doesn’t interest me in the slightest, as I’m a devout lesbian.’ She’d really thought that would bring him to his senses, but she was so, so wrong. He snatched up the gauntlet.

‘I’ll cure you of that ridiculous depravity! A stitch in time saves nine, after all. When you find out what you’ve been missing with me, there will be no going back – I guarantee it; there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle.’

Spinks was certifiable, she realised. He fancied himself as some sort of porky Casanova – didn’t he have a mirror? But he literally had her backed into a corner, a vice-like grip squeezing both wrists – and though she was taller than him, he had the weight advantage very much on his side. She could see no alternative …

With adrenalin-induced strength, she wrenched her arms free, quickly gauged her position for maximum impact and kneed him in the groin as hard as she possibly could. Then she repeated the action once more for luck.

His eyes saucered with shock and/or disbelief and/or pain and his face flushed dramatically through the colour spectrum, settling on purple – at the same time his body slowly folded in two as far as his girth would allow, forcing a pathetic, gurgled whinny through his clenched dentures. He staggered to a nearby desk for support, massaging his abused manhood – Emily gawped shamelessly, unable to avert her eyes from his suffering and unsure of the etiquette applicable to such circumstances. At last, he found enough breath to sack her.

‘You are a very foolish young woman, Miss Kelly. We could have made beautiful music together. Get out! And don’t come back!’

She didn’t have to be told twice, ‘There’s no fool like an old fool – and you’re certainly that, Spinks. You shouldn’t have counted your chickens!’ She darted for the door and turned to fire a parting salvo, ‘I’ll be filing a sexual harassment claim against you personally, so start saving – and this dump can expect a visit from Health and Safety.’ She was bluffing, but he didn’t know that, and she hoped the threat would cause him at least a week of sleepless nights.

Time to run. She cleared the few possessions she kept in her locker and was out of the factory gates in seconds, at a speed any Olympic medallist would be proud of – just in case ‘Bernard’ found his second wind.

Chapter Three

The adrenalin rush quickly ebbed away to nothing and Emily began to feel shaky and anxious – though she refused to give in to the tears that pricked her eyes. With less than an hour to go before she was due to meet Miss Haughty, she didn’t want to turn up with red-rimmed eyes and a blotchy face – ditto tobacco breath, so the roll-ups stayed in her pocket. After her lightning sprint, she allowed herself recovery time propped against a lamppost. The sky was turning an ominous charcoal colour and threatened an imminent, heavy downpour. It seemed like a good plan to head off for the Connaught to shelter from the rain and de-Spinks herself into looking as human as possible for the interview; her paint-splattered jeans and threadbare shirt would have to do, as she didn’t have enough time to go home to change and get back again. Fingers crossed allowances would be made for her coming straight from work.

During the short walk, she did some scary mental arithmetic, which made her shiver even more than the keen wind that whipped through her clothing. She was certain Spinks would block the money she was owed for the week just worked and she had no spare cash lounging in her bank account to cover rent and contingencies. She had to impress the woman she was about to meet and land whatever work was on offer, or she would become a penniless hobo in a matter of days.

She tried her best to tame her primitive locks and clean the red paint from her hands in the hotel’s less than salubrious ladies, before she wandered through to the lounge and selected an armchair that was set in prime position for checking out new arrivals. Not that there would be too many, she thought – the place was like the Marie Celeste. She’d not seen a soul since her arrival around thirty minutes before, which at least cancelled out one worry – she’d have no problem at all working out who she was meant to be meeting.

Her nerves were on High Alert and her tongue stuck stubbornly to the roof of her mouth. A coffee wouldn’t have gone amiss, but unsure she’d have enough money for a cup, all Emily could do to pass the time was cross her legs and swing a foot up and down nonchalantly to a beat only she could hear.

In a setting of shabby elegance (easy on the elegance), a large wall clock monotonously tick-tocked her life away by the second, until Cruella De Vil’s doppelganger swished in through the revolving door at four fifty-nine precisely.

‘Miss Kelly?’ she asked, casting a glacial look in Emily’s direction.

‘Yes, that’s me.’ She struggled to get out of the deep, upholstered chair, which was determined to hold her to ransom as penance for outstaying her welcome.

‘Please don’t get up. Can I order you a drink, a coffee perhaps?’ She stood at the reception desk and almost smiled. With every hair in place, she seemed untouched by the raging weather outside.

‘Thank you – that would be very nice.’

As if by magic, a young girl wearing funereal black – with an expression to match – materialised from behind the scenes and took the order. Cruella headed in her direction, walking in that weird, hip-throwing fashion favoured by catwalk models. Emily observed an immaculately dressed, no-nonsense package, aged somewhere around forty, and felt scruffy and grimy in comparison – and very ill-at-ease, as any self-confidence she’d managed to muster flew out the window. She so wanted to go home and spare herself the certain humiliation of this ordeal – though conceded she had no choice but to stay and do her utmost to convey herself as the ideal candidate for . . .