The Prodigal

By H.C. Maree

Frank and Lizzie Cudgill are the perfect couple – influential, respected, wealthy beyond their means, but childless after seven years of marriage. When they adopt Daniel their happiness is complete – until they notice him exhibiting strange and disturbing character traits.

Parents will go to great lengths to raise their children well. Daniel succumbs to their nurturing and he emerges from his difficult years stronger, more disciplined, successful and brilliant.

Daniel returns to the family farm from university and a successful career years later. He’s made it just in time to witness his beloved mother sigh her last breath. But then Frank’s death follows within months and Daniel is noticeable by his absence at the funeral.

Frank’s friend, Dr Mark Foster, is uneasy. The facts concerning Frank’s death don’t add up. When his investigation starts, someone is watching, threatening him, biding time. Can Mark resolve the questions surrounding Frank’s death? And if he can, at what cost to himself and the woman he loves?

• Language: English
• Publisher: H.C. Maree
• Release date: Jan 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310078026

H.C. Maree

H.C. Maree has always written, since her first job in an advertising department to her last full-time position as a corporate editor. She debuted with her first novel, “The Prodigal”, a suspense-filled murder mystery, in 2016, to be followed by her upcoming novel next year. After several years in the Middle East H.C. now lives with her husband in Mpumalanga, South Africa, bordering the famous Kruger National Park. The area is the backdrop for “The Prodigal”. Although she was born in the city of Pretoria, she has created a fictional version of a town in her stories. She thinks towns “lend themselves to intriguing characters where everyone wants to know everyone else’s business.” She brings to life compelling relationships that embrace family and lasting friendships, inspiring her readers with universal truths, wisdoms and hope. H.C. is a voracious reader and avid gardener and her own beautiful garden is her sanctuary. She loves communicating with her readers. She has two blogs. You can join her at www.prettyusefulblog.com or www.hcmaree.worpress.com, where she shares her gardening tips, her books and her enthusiasm for both. You can also contact her directly at [e-mail] to discuss her books.

Book preview

1

February 2013

FRANK CUDGILL WAS buried according to his own concise instructions – a ten-minute church service followed by an equally quick interment. The event, if one could call it that, was intended simply as a final, grateful farewell to friends, Frank’s tribute to friendships made and alliances nurtured. It was a show of respect to those present, rather than a lament for his departure from this life.

That was the nature of the man, thought Mark. Get the job done with as little inconvenience to others as possible. Drawing tears and awakening sadness was not how Frank would have wanted his funeral. Darkness, grief and disappointment had been too much a part of his life.

Reverend Michaels had come to know Frank well enough to understand his request for a synoptic ceremony. Frank’s tall, strong figure would be missed at Sunday morning services, just as his beloved wife, Lizzie’s, had been for the past few months. Before Lizzie’s death, Frank could always be relied upon to provide help quickly when the church needed it, despite his own busy schedule. He was good at fixing things and made short shrift of a leaking roof or a dripping tap.

The service took place on the protected porch of the farmhouse Frank and Lizzie had called home for more than thirty years. Mark wrapped his fingers around Caren’s as he sat next to her. She’d arrived earlier that morning, to help Frank’s housekeeper prepare for this, the second funeral at the house in a little over six months.

Lizzie’s lush garden, scented this time of year by wild gardenia, honeysuckle and mock orange blossoms, surrounded everyone, as it had at her own funeral, like a sweet reminder of her presence. Trooper, Frank and Lizzie’s golden Labrador, now grey with age and rheumatism, lay droopy-eyed at the door.

Exactly ten minutes after the ceremony had begun, Reverend Michaels closed with a prayer. The assembly proceeded down the porch steps towards the shade of the giant old mahogany tree, which stood on a grassy knoll two hundred metres or so to the west of the homestead. Wildflowers, heads bowed, moved to the rhythm of a gentle breeze. Frank couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant day for his friends and family to say their goodbyes to him.

Majestic, leafy green branches stretched out their shade. Lizzie’s dappled grave was there already, covered by a thin layer of moss that was just starting to spread. Alongside it was Frank’s newly dug final resting place.

Everything seemed so peaceful, thought Mark. Frank and Lizzie’s chapter had closed, and here they both were, still together, still where they’d planned and lived and seen their lives through to the end. Mark scanned the crowd around the graveside. Including himself and Caren, many of Frank’s close friends were there. Frank’s sister, Emily, stood red-eyed and grieving, disobeying Frank’s wishes. Others, faces unknown to Mark, had come to pay their last respects to a respected man. Conspicuous by his absence was Frank and Lizzie’s only child, Daniel.

MARK KISSED CAREN’S cheek. The breeze lifted soft tendrils around her face. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before sliding into her car.

See you later, she said as he closed her door. Mark watched her start the car and drive off, heading towards home. Walking to his own car, he reflected on the ways in which Frank had touched his life. He sat in it for a while, allowing the mood of the ceremony to envelop him, not ready to break with the quiet of the farm to return to the traffic and his busy rooms.

MARK HAD BEEN jolted by the news of Frank’s passing. When Caren had fetched him from the airport, she’d waited until his luggage was stashed in the boot and they were halfway home before she told him. Mark and Frank had been close friends for over a decade. Mark knew that there had been no gentler way for Caren to shield him from the prospect that he and Frank would never again have the opportunity to share a joke, or watch a game together, beers in hand, as they noisily cheered a player or complained about a referee’s decision.

He had stared at her. He’d heard the words, but his mind had been reluctant to assimilate the information.

How did it happen? he’d demanded.

He was admitted to the hospital after suffering a heart attack.

Mark had run his fingers through his hair, feeling as if he’d just been winded by a steel fist. That’s just not possible. When was this?

Two days ago, Caren had answered. A cardiologist was called to the ER to examine him. The man who drove him there said that Frank had been complaining of chest pain.

Once home, Mark had carried his luggage upstairs, taken a quick shower and driven to the hospital. He had twenty minutes before his scheduled meeting with the hospital management, and he’d strode straight to the office next door to his own and knocked on the door.

Graham had answered, calling for him to come in, and Mark opened the door. Graham, Mark’s colleague and friend since university days, was sitting at his desk, checking the long paper swathe of an ECG report. He’d had a haircut over the weekend that made him look younger, Mark noticed. This past year Graham’s hair had turned grey at the temples, yet his blue eyes were as alert and sharply intelligent as ever. He’d looked up, grinning as he saw Mark. You’re back! How was the conference?

Mark had filled him in on one of the most recent developments in their field. Then he had asked if Graham had heard about Frank. Graham had nodded, his expression turning serious.

I’m sorry, Mark. He was a good man. According to the admitting physician the onset of his symptoms was gradual, but he’d delayed hospital treatment for far too long. By the time his factory manager rushed him here he was in severe pain with all the classic symptoms, and he was admitted with a provisional diagnosis of an acute myocardial infarction.

Graham had confirmed what Caren had told Mark about Frank’s cause of death. Frank had certainly acted true to character, Mark thought. Always ready to help others, but when it came to his own needs, he’d pushed aside the warning signs. He’d probably felt the pain and simply willed it to go away by itself. A strong man, both physically and in character, Frank had always convinced himself that he was invincible. This time, he’d assumed too much.

MARK FELT THE unmistakable twinge of unease creeping up on him as he sat, deep in thought, behind the wheel. He remembered having examined Frank at his annual check-up just a month prior to his death. Although Frank had lost weight and was visibly strained after Lizzie’s recent death from breast cancer, he had been fit.

Frank had adored Lizzie. Watching her suffer as her illness progressed had been understandably difficult for him. Frank had done all he could, characteristically refusing help from others, insisting on nursing her himself until her frail body finally succumbed.

Concerned, Mark had sent Frank for blood tests. The results had revealed nothing of real concern. All pointers had appeared to be within normal range, except for mild anaemia. He’d ascribed that to Frank’s poor dietary intake over the months preceding Lizzie’s death.

Mark remembered having asked Frank to run on the treadmill. He’d done a full ten minutes of The Bruce Protocol with no symptoms and the ECG had remained completely normal. Frank’s heart sonar had showed healthy valves and function, absent of wall-motion abnormalities. Mark’s conclusion: no indication of dysfunction or an impending heart attack.

Mark tried to recall details of their conversation that day. Could he possibly have missed a critical clue, something that could have prevented Frank’s death? They’d discussed nothing of particular significance. Frank, as always, had asked, with interest, about Caren and the kids, and had told Mark about seasonal plans for his farm. Mark had observed Frank’s sadness when he had mentioned that the house, where he now lived alone except for his dog, was silent and cavernous without Lizzie to breathe life into it.

He had pictured Frank sitting down to solitary meals in his beautiful home and strolling around Lizzie’s fragrant rose garden where he could feel close to her. What Frank had been experiencing was a typical bereavement period. He had lost the one person who sparked his life with love and hope, and Mark had felt powerless to help him. Nothing but time could bring back a measure of Frank’s contentment. Mark’s heart had gone out to Frank as he wished him well, grasping his hand supportively with both of his own as he said goodbye. The irony of that final farewell was not lost on him now.

Mark’s thoughts jerked back to the present when two farm workers passed his car, raising their hands in a polite greeting. Each carried a shovel, and Mark watched as they started filling the earth into Frank’s grave.

Mark started his car and drove back along the dirt loop road to the gate of the homestead. He was the last to leave, and he exchanged greetings with the farm manager’s wife as she drove in through the main gate. He’d met her once, and she’d struck him as friendly and efficient. She allowed his car to pass and closed the gate, using her remote.

Arriving at the hospital, Mark parked in his designated parking bay in the basement, pensively climbed the eight steps to the ground floor and entered his office via the private entrance. He was in no mood to see anyone just yet.

MARK’S THOUGHTS WERE still with Frank as he shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the hook behind his office door. He’d lost count of the thousands of patients he’d consulted with during his working life. He’d examined them here in his examination room, and in other hospitals, over the years. He had noted their medical histories and performed thousands of procedures in theatres in several cities. He’d checked their charts and stood by their bedsides for hours, watching for signs of progress.

And he’d listened to the things they had said. Over the years he’d learned to filter the information they gave him, to separate the important from the less relevant facts. Sometimes patients found it difficult to communicate. At times such as these, family members often gave vital nuggets of information that helped Mark piece together why a patient was reacting to treatment in a certain way. Sometimes, reading between the lines of what they said, Mark gained better insight into the patients’ lifestyles, physical habits and states of mind.

Mark remembered some of his patients for a particularly interesting or difficult procedure he’d performed on them. Then, occasionally, he’d cross paths with someone with whom he felt an immediate connection. Frank had been one of them.

He reached across his desk and buzzed his office manager on the internal phone. Margaret, please get the lab to send me the final test results … for Mr Frank Cudgill.

2

LEGENDARY SELF-MADE BILLIONAIRE, Marcel de Villiers, arrived in Mvubu unintentionally. It was in early March 2001 when, while lounging on the game-viewing sundeck of one of South Africa’s most exclusive private game reserves, iced gin and tonic in hand, he felt the first pangs of an inflamed, stone-riddled gallbladder.

The concerned and efficient staff called for help and, without delay, De Villiers was flown to the nearest hospital via a medical-rescue helicopter. When the aircraft landed, De Villiers was lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled into the emergency room of the old Hilltop Missionary Hospital, where he spent the next two-and-a-half hours waiting for medical attention.

He was patient number six on the emergency list. The ball on the temperature gauge beside the peeling door frame lay steady at thirty-six degrees centigrade, yet ahead of De Villiers an elderly woman clutched a knitted shawl, her bone-white knuckles stretching the paper-thin skin of her work-ravaged hands. Her shoulders seemed impossibly thin to carry her frame. She was clearly in acute distress.

Young and old patients, from all walks of life, waited in long queues that lined the walls, for a member of the overworked staff to attend to them. A hefty man in a well-cut business suit applied pressure to a bleeding, disjointed thumb, while an upright woman in bead-strings and a colourful sari waved her fan in a determined effort to ward off the flies and the heat. More than once her waving became too vigorous, to the detriment of a man with a walrus moustache sitting to her left, who was on the edge of his seat.

Some patients had travelled far, judging by the belongings they carried – a thin, rolled-up mattress, in case an overnight stay became necessary, water in plastic Coke bottles, cooked pap and sheba in a styrofoam holder. They had little choice but to wait. There were no other hospitals in the area.

A name was called, and De Villiers was one space closer to help. He counted those ahead of him. Four to go. He tried to ease himself into a more comfortable position, momentarily closing his eyes. When he opened them again, the moustached man had moved to another seat. Suddenly, his worst fears were realised, as excruciating pain seared his gut.

Dear God, this isn’t happening to me, he cried, as his gallbladder finally burst. Ashen-faced, beads of perspiration formed above his brows and upper lip.

His wife’s frantic attempts to draw the attention of medical staff to his plight were finally heard. As he longed for the relief brought about by a deep unconsciousness, he became aware of heightened activity around him: a controlled urgency in a voice, quickened steps beside him, people holding him, combined hands lifting him onto a bed. He was, at last, being prepared for surgery.

De Villiers had heard many times that, like moths, humans always look for light wherever they find themselves. His attention was riveted to a single, rusted, industrial-strength lamp that hung suspended from the ceiling above the operating table. When he turned his head, he took in the row of surgical instruments gleaming in regimental precision on a stainless-steel tray. The smell of surgical spirits hung thick, clogging the already saturated air.

All he wanted was for this ordeal to end, and end quickly. Even if it meant grabbing the scalpel and making the incision with his own hands to bring relief from the agony he was experiencing.

A kindly face in a nun’s habit appeared above him and touched his hand lightly. When she spoke, he did not understand her words, but he sensed her compassion as she made the sign of the cross. The strong, bright light faded into a milky fog as his vision contracted and blurred. The light, he thought, as he sank into unconsciousness, works on a dimmer switch.

DE VILLIERS AWOKE in a long, narrow room. He was not alone, he realised, as he slowly raised his head. Patients lay in rows along both sides of the room, separated by a narrow passage. Some had visitors, who’d brought them food. A woman sat knitting, glancing every now and then at the face of a sleeping man in a bed opposite his own. A single, small, high window at his end of the room shone a square of mote-filled light, and several ineffectual air vents ran the length of the ward, rendering the air rank and stale.

A small movement drew his gaze to the gauze-covered window. A gargantuan, bottle-green fly with an array of exophthalmic eyes paced along the edge of the frame, which, he supposed, was probably there to keep the fly outside, rather than within.

The accommodation could do with a revamp, De Villiers murmured to himself, looking down at the sheet covering his bottom half, and feeling the dull ache beneath his bandages, but, touch wood, I’m alive. He was never as sincerely grateful as he was there and then, to the devout and charitable Swiss order of nuns and their overburdened, dedicated surgeon.

That was when he had the brainwave.

ORIGINALLY SPONSORED AND built by the Swiss Government during the 1960s, Hilltop Missionary Hospital offered vital basic medical care in an area practically devoid of health services. For more than three decades it had remained the only privately owned hospital in South Africa’s Limpopo and Mpumalanga provinces. Aside from three underequipped and understaffed government hospitals, and a few clinics dotted around the countryside, Hilltop Missionary Hospital served an area of two hundred and ten thousand square kilometres, just smaller than the United Kingdom.

As if that wasn’t exerting enough strain on the region’s medical services, a steady stream of patients from neighbouring Swaziland and Mozambique trudged across the borders and found their way to Hilltop, unable to find the necessary help in their own struggling countries.

Marcel de Villiers had made his fortune from South Africa’s gold mines on the Reef. He was investigating prospects to the east of the country, around the rich gold-mining reserves of the Barberton hills. Having completed negotiations with the owners of two of the largest mines, he’d treated his wife and himself to a few days of well-earned indulgence at a luxurious lodge located deep in the Mpumalanga bushveld.

Like most billionaires whose affluence is self-acquired, De Villiers exhibited three main personality traits: he was an opportunist who kept his senses trained on promising business opportunities; he was able to transform misfortune into success; and he kept an open mind to whatever befell him. This time it was his gut-wrenching gallbladder that focused his attention on the desperate demand for adequate medical services in the region. His physical demise further served to convince him that he needed to diversify his assets.

After three days in a rickety hospital bed, surrounded by the sounds and odours of human suffering, the vociferous din of patients and their families entering and leaving at all hours, and the oppressive heat of the under-ventilated ward, De Villiers had a well-formulated plan of action.

A week later, he bought the old Hilltop Missionary Hospital for a song. The original owners were surprised that anyone would want to buy the run-down property, and they were more than happy to sell it to De Villiers when he explained his plans for it.

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER, the modern, six-storey tinted-glass façade of the Medical Centre reflected the verdant hills across the valley as it hugged the eastern slope of Mvubu. Inside the elegant, hi-tech rooms, medical professionals consulted with patients. Those with more persistent illnesses, or who required invasive procedures, were admitted to the attractive adjoining building, the newly refurbished Hilltop Private Hospital.

The entire structure rested solidly on a granite ledge jutting out from the hillside. All the suites had an unobstructed, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the fertile fields of Mvubu Valley, which were steadily being overrun on all sides by growing suburban development.

In recent years, the town and its surrounds had mushroomed. The growing number of new buildings and construction sites transformed the skyline. Schools, churches, factories, white-collar office buildings, retail centres and shopping malls stood where, just ten years previously, only citrus, nut trees and sugarcane plantations had flourished.

About an hour, by road, lay one of South Africa’s major tourist attractions, the Kruger National Park. Millions of tourists flocked to it annually, passing through Mvubu, spending foreign currency and providing a much-needed financial injection to the area. And tourists, like everyone else, needed emergency medical services, preferably close at hand.

Packing up their lives and their belongings from the rat race and traffic of Johannesburg, medical professionals had slowly started arriving to occupy De Villiers’s new hospital. Nursing staff and hospital administrators followed as vacancies opened. With business acumen and deep pockets, Marcel de Villiers had once again proven that he was an entrepreneurial tour de force. A ruptured gallbladder, combined with his vision, had seen to that.

MARGARET EVANS UNLOCKED the heavy oak double doors to her workplace on the ground floor of the Medical Centre. Engraved on a brass plate to the right of the frame were the words: Drs Foster, Brent and Associates, Cardiologists. Another brass plate beneath that listed the names of several specialist physicians.

Entering the waiting area, Margaret glanced up at the clock above the counter. 06.30. Arriving this early was an old habit. Margaret enjoyed the freshness of a new day, the absence of traffic on the roads before the morning rush hour, and basking in the silence of an empty suite of rooms, where she, alone as a cloud, could plan her day.

The only sounds were the electronic bleeps emanating from the pacemaker-testing machines and the monotonous, fluorescent hum of the lights. In an hour’s time, the place would erupt into frenetic activity, the phones ringing relentlessly, until early evening, with colleagues arriving and leaving as they changed shifts.

Margaret followed her usual routine. She checked the water level in the urn, and switched it on. While it warmed, she took a quick walk through the examination rooms, checking that the bed linen was crisp and clean, fresh towels were hung on the towel rails alongside the basins and at the treadmill, and that the equipment was sterilised and ready for use.

Her inspection was quick but relentless, missing nothing. She heard the gurgle of the boiling urn water and saw the steam rising, telling her that it was ready for her first cup. Back at her desk, she settled in comfortably, resting her feet on the wooden block she’d placed under the desk for this purpose. At her age, she thought, one had to use every opportunity to elevate one’s legs, even if only for a short while.

Margaret was a young sixty, and took good care of herself. As in all aspects of her life, she was a disciplined eater, and she still fitted comfortably into her wedding dress. She took pride in this feat. She practised Pilates every other day, and over weekends she took long walks with her friends, some of whom were members of the local rambling club.

Dipping her homemade wheat-germ and buttermilk rusk into her coffee, she reached for her diary, and flipped it over to the day’s date. At the bottom of the page, the quote read: Nothing will ever be attempted if all possible objections must first be overcome – Samuel Johnson. Sipping her coffee, she assimilated this wisdom for a minute or two. It reminded her to get started on something she’d been postponing for far too long. Penning precise to-do notes, she listed the day’s priorities.

Margaret loved her job. She’d worked for Dr Foster for twenty-two years, starting at his practice in Johannesburg, then opting to relocate to Mvubu when he did. She’d grown up on a farm near Mvubu, where her father’s pine plantation provided logs