A Quick Fix

By Barbara J. Blyth

An Edwardian seaside town is labeled the drug capital of north Norfolk, and an unlikely group of people find their lives inextricably linked to itand each other. They are the following:

Deeanna, the beautiful young wife of an MEP. She is desperately trying to save her familys country estate following her fathers death and the discovery that they are broke. An opportunity to make quick money is just too temptingand she has never been afraid to live life on the edge.

Deeannas brother, Jonathan, always wants to emulate his sister. He takes over the running of the estate when the decision is made to open it to the public. His partnership in a flying school in Holland leads him to become an unwitting courier, with dire consequences.

The mysterious Peter, who takes a job as security man to Deeannas husband, Nigel. But that is just a cover while he works for a drug enforcement agency. His dilemma is what to do about the stunningly beautiful Deeanna once he discovers that she is a main player.

Crab fisherman, Whitebait, Highly respected in a tight-knit community, he worries that his pension will not be enough to give his wife, Mary, the rewards she deserves after all the years of hard work. During his last seasons at sea with his brother, Larry, they bring ashore more than crabs and lobsters. But Larry is weak and careless. He is tempted to try the drugs himself.

The owners of a Dutch cargo vessel. Struggling to stay in business against increasingly difficult competition, they are also lured into temptation to pay off the crippling cost of their boat.

Marti is a mixed-up young car salesman. His one ambition in life is to bring to justice the foster father who abused him as a child. He becomes a courier and quite by chance meets up with Terry, one of the other boys from the foster home. Terry, already an addict, introduces Marti to his boss.

Joe Smiththat is probably not his birth nameis obese, suffers from angina and is no longer a main player in the Amsterdam drug world. He has been hard and ruthless over the years to maintain his slice of the business, but now he is losing out to the big, dangerous international syndicates.

His sidekick, Roberto, is a suave Italian, and Deeanna likes what she sees. But he is plotting to desert Joe and move to the opposition where he believes a bigger pot of gold is waiting.

Lured by the promise of quick financial gains for their own particular needs or greed, they all become entangled in a dark and dangerous network. Their lives are changed foreveras they opt for A QUICK FIX.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jul 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468581706

Barbara J. Blyth

As Barbara Blyth lay dying from a long illness her husband, David, promised her that he would try to complete her long held ambition of having her book published. A Quick Fix uses the information her retired journalist husband gathered while investigating the drug scene in North Norfolk and information she gathered while working as a barmaid in several public-houses. Born in Norwich, the daughter of a cobbler, Barbara tried many ways of providing for her two young children alone. This included becoming matron of a private school and when this closed she swiotched to working on the land. It was while running an agricultural gang that she launched on a career of poaching to ensure her children always had meat on the table. Her exploits at poaching were featured in a television series, A Cook On The Wild Side, with famous chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. When she re-married in 1989 she switched her attentions to supporting her husband in his career while holding employment in local retail shops. Often she would go on ‘shouts’ with her husband—taking a camera—and once had a series of photographs of a fire published in the Eastern Daily Press. It was also at this time she revealed a talent for writing and often had theatre reviews published in the North Norfolk News. It was this dabbling in journalism that launched her on writing A Quick Fix.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Jonathan brought the small plane in to land along the rough landing strip that, 100 years ago, had been the narrow road from the hall to the little hamlet of Croughton. There were several things that he wanted to talk to his sister Deeanna about, and after weeks of hard work at Longwold Manor in Gloucestershire, the bright sunny spell had spurred him to fly to Norfolk to see her.

Deeanna’s husband Nigel was in Brussels—that was another reason for Jonathan’s decision. He could talk to his sister without feeling uncomfortable. He found the relationship between Deeanna and her husband very disconcerting, and it seemed impossible to him that Nigel could still be taken in by Deeanna’s games. He also found it difficult to understand how his beautiful sister could live a day-to-day lie in something so intimate as marriage.

Deeanna told the housekeeper, Mrs Beasley, that they would have lunch in the little cottage that they called the summerhouse. Occasional overnight guests used the cottage now. When no one was staying there it had become Deeanna’s little retreat, where she could escape to relax and be her true secret self. Here she and Jonathan could talk about anything and everything without being interrupted or overheard.

She handed her mare Serenity over to Maxine at the stables and changed out of her riding clothes. She thought Jonathan would already have collected the key and be waiting for her. On the way downstairs, however, she was surprised to hear him in the study talking to someone on the telephone. He sounded agitated.

Already? he said loudly. You said about once a month, not this frequently! She heard him slam down the ‘phone.

Deeanna picked up the key, deciding that it was best not to let him know that she had overheard the snip of conversation. He would no doubt tell her about it later anyway.

In the summerhouse she prepared coffee for them both and found some biscuits, but when Jonathan did not appear, she walked back to the house and found him sitting at the big kitchen table eating an enormous cooked breakfast. He was laughing animatedly with Mrs Beasley and Deeanna thought how well he looked. His blonde hair seemed to be even lighter and the summer sun had bronzed him.

My handsome brother will spoil the whole effect if he stuffs himself full of cholesterol every morning. He’ll end up grossly overweight! she said from the doorway.

Deeanna! Where have you been? I’ve been here for hours! he exaggerated and leapt up from the table to plant a greasy kiss on her forehead. She pushed him away playfully.

Finish your breakfast, she said, then we can go to the summerhouse and talk.

In the tiny kitchen of the converted cottage she poured coffee for them, and as they sat in the lounge enjoying the sun that streamed through the French windows, Jonathan talked about Longwold Manor, their ancestral home in Gloucestershire.

The riding school was now ready to open, he told her, and with the building work on the old stable block finished, and the first horses settled in, the riders from around the area were beginning to take an interest. Two young ladies had their own horses stabled there and with the initial advertising done and the opening day announced, Jonathan was confident that he could now look forward to seeing some return for their investment of Nigel’s money.

Plans were also well in hand to throw the manor open to the public. This was a much bigger project that would keep Jonathan fully occupied for a long time to come, but Deeanna realised that he was enjoying every minute of it. She recalled his dismay when he had first learned of their changed circumstances.

How is Gran? Deeanna’s inquiry about the dowager duchess was tinged with concern. An epidemic of ‘flu had put the old lady in bed for over two weeks at the beginning of April and it had taken its toll on her. Deeanna had kept in touch with her regularly by ‘phone, but felt guilty about her own absence from the manor when her grandmother had been so ill. She knew that her mother would be little or no comfort to the old lady, and Jonathan now confirmed this.

I can’t believe mother went to France so that she wouldn’t catch it from her, he said, and related the story of their mother’s insistence that the doctor examine her first, when he had been called out urgently to see the dowager duchess.

That was shocking, said Deeanna, but typical of mother, of course. I hope we don’t get eccentric in our old age, brother! she added.

Mother has always been eccentric, as you so politely put it. If we had tendencies in that direction it would have been apparent by now!

At that moment they heard a noise from the floor above. They looked at each other and both rose from their chairs to go upstairs. They moved silently on the soft carpet and it didn’t take long to check the two bedrooms and the bathroom.

I can’t imagine what it was, said Jonathan as they descended the stairs again.

Probably something just fallen down in one of the cupboards, Deeanna replied. Or a rat in the loft. They settled down again and Deeanna put on a tape recording of some favourite soft music.

Jonathan told her about the dusty family treasures that their grandmother had resurrected from the basement, the attic, and the west wing. There was nothing of really great value and it transpired that their father had made an inventory and had several pieces valued before he died, possibly in the hope of finding one or two valuable pictures to sell to help their financial plight.

There was a tapestry that was causing some excitement in London at the moment, but this was to be hung as a central theme in the long gallery that was the library on the first floor.

Before that, however, two ladies were to be put to work doing some repairs to it. This, Jonathan told her, meant the ladies were being brought from London to stay at the manor until their expert work was finished to grandmother’s satisfaction. Querying the necessity for this expense, Jonathan had been firmly put in his place with two of grandmother’s favourite proverbs: Don’t spoil the ship for a ha’pence of pitch, my lad; and You must speculate to accumulate.

That’s what father said and look where it left us! Jonathan had made sure he was out of reach of her walking stick before replying.

Young scallywag! she had retorted loudly, enjoying the acoustics that the large hall gave her from her position at the top of the main staircase.

Deeanna longed to be there when so much was happening. Jonathan talked about the new security system, which he had been assured was a necessity if they were to open up the house, and he moaned about having to vacate his room and move to the floor above that would not be seen by the public. He told Deeanna about other changes that were necessary, such as the building of new toilets for the public, and the making of an extra gateway and approach road to avoid the possibility of cars and coaches congesting on the main road, that was part of the village bypass.

The local council had insisted on this extra expenditure, he moaned. The costs were ‘astronomical,’ he declared. Catering had become a big issue and had meant that the kitchen had needed revamping with stainless steel everywhere to comply with public health regulations. Lots of the Victorian and Edwardian equipment, however, was to be put on display in the scullery and pantries that were the oldest part of the kitchens.

They lapsed into companionable silence for a while and drank more coffee, each thinking their own thoughts. Deeanna eventually broke the silence.

Don’t worry about running out of money before we really get started, she said suddenly with a smile.

Jonathan was quite surprised—he had been thinking similar thoughts himself. He looked at Deeanna who was reclining amongst several cushions on a large comfortable settee. The sun streaming through the window cast a halo around and through her hair and it seemed to him that no matter what she wore, or what she did, she always looked stunning. He looked appreciatively at her long slender legs and wished for an instant that he had time to find himself a girl as beautiful as his sister. Her eyes beneath the long dark lashes were sparkling now with amusement.

What are you up to? he asked suspiciously.

I think you will find that the coffers are slightly fuller by the end of the month, she said simply.

Jonathan sat upright. Come on, tell me about it! he said as Deeanna enjoyed his boyish enthusiasm.

I’ve made a little coup on some shares. More than that, I’d rather not tell you yet. Just make sure that nobody enquires too deeply about where it came from. If they do you’ll have to say that it was part of my marriage settlement, but steer them away from being nosey at all costs.

If I’m to do that, I really need to know what you are up to, he pointed out. Then another thought struck him. How much are we talking about anyway?

Ten—with a bit of luck, said Deeanna simply, examining her fingernails at arms length and thoroughly enjoying the look on her brother’s face. Thousand, that is, she added.

What!

Deeanna rose from the depths of the cushions and moved towards the French doors. She stretched and then closed the doors before turning to face the questions from her brother.

What have you been up to? he repeated in a hoarse whisper. He was excited, brimming over with curiosity, full of admiration for his sister—who had obviously come up with something good—but at the same time apprehensive because he knew that Deeanna was not afraid to sail close to the wind. So many times in the past, even when they were quite small, she had dared to do things that others had not considered worth the risk. She had always been the one who would think up fantastic ideas for their childhood games. If life did not present her with a challenge she would invent one herself. She had always been a schemer—and he supposed—always would be.

Deeanna—relenting—told him briefly how she bought the shares and then transferred them through several accounts and businesses to lose track of their identity—in effect laundering the money. He thought about it—firing questions at her—trying to find the snags. There were some, of course, but if they could get away with it… It was too tempting… But it was brilliant! It had to work. Deeanna had done it again, he marvelled.

You are the only one I have told, Deeanna warned. Nigel certainly doesn’t know. The only thing I can’t make up my mind about is how Gran will react, if and when she is told. Do we tell her, wait until she finds out for herself and explain, or keep her completely in the dark? That’s something I need you to think about for me—I just can’t make up my mind."

Jonathan still had quivers of suspicion. He knew his sister too well. She had never before asked for his help to make a decision regarding one of her schemes. But if there was more to this than she was telling him, she was keeping it to herself.

Jonathan’s admiration of his younger sister was unquestionable. He had strived since his early childhood to do everything as well as she did—to be like her. She seemed to have a flair for everything. He always had to work twice as hard as she did, it seemed, to attain the same goals.

Their games as children had always begun with one of her terrific ideas, and even when he was quite small he would wonder why he didn’t have such good ideas himself. She was braver than he was, too. The best apples—he remembered now with amusement—had hung on a tree overhanging the fast-flowing mill stream on the Longwold estate. No one had ever dared to climb out on to the limb to get them—except Deeanna. She had taunted Jonathan and the two gamekeeper’s sons, calling them ‘chicken,’ and inching her way out over the water had reaped several of the apples before someone raised the alarm.

The adults thought that the pretty young mistress of the house was a real tomboy—always out with the boys, the ringleader of their mischief, and getting just as dirty, but Deeanna always succeeded in extricating herself from blame when their exploits got them carpeted in father’s study. She had always managed to change into a pretty dress, and smiling demurely at their father, had immediately melted his wrath. Jonathan did not resent her at all for any of this. He had just admired and loved her, and trotted along behind, always in the shadow of her more brilliant light.

Now was no exception. She had told him quite casually how, with nothing more it seemed, than the stroke of a pen, she had added £10,000 to the estate funds with some share deals. Every day he worked physically hard on the estate in Gloucestershire and managed to save a few pounds on costs here, and some more there.

He still had an interest in the flying school in Holland. This he had founded with an older partner before the family fortunes had crashed, and while he was still at university. Admittedly, the new ventures on the estate should be profitable eventually, but he did not feel that he was making money, when everyday he found he was obliged to spend more.

True, he reasoned. "We need something to hang on the wall in the long gallery when we open to the public.’’ The tapestry of their ancestor lying mortally wounded on the battlefield at Hastings was certainly meant to hang there, and had caused considerable interest when it had been re-discovered recently; but did grandmother really need to have two ladies brought all the way from London to stay at Longwold to repair it? There must be a cheaper way to go about it. He even tried to enlist the help of his mother, but Susan had quickly withered beneath the dowager duchess’s steely glare.

Oh dear, mother had said. Well, then, I’m sure it is for the best. Why don’t you wear your nice new waistcoat for dinner tonight, dear?

Speculate to accumulate! grandmother had boomed. She had always been a shrewd lady, even when she was young. In those days, however, it had been quite normal for the gentry of the large country estates to owe money for things, and settle their bills every quarter or half-yearly, and it did not occur to the old lady that the world of finance might do things differently now. Debts were a matter of honour to her. Of course she would pay. She was totally affronted by ‘little’ people who dared to send her threatening letters, just because she hadn’t paid a few weeks after they had supplied her with their goods or services.

Impudence! she would declare. It was the slur on her honour that maddened her so. On more than one occasion recently she had, with a wave of her stick, ordered some work to be done or satisfied some spur-of-the-moment whim, the cost of which had made Jonathan blanch and run to study the accounts. Grandmother was determined, however, that if the general public—the hoi-polloi as she called them—were to be allowed to tramp all over her home, then it would at least be seen in its fullest glory. She would not allow half-measures.

Jonathan always found that Deeanna had been to the accounts before him and there had been sufficient money in the bank when at times there should have been none. She had once again anticipated the latest problem.

Call it part of my marriage settlement, Deeanna had said. Don’t mention it to Nigel—it will only embarrass him, she had said on another occasion.

Keep grandmother away from the books, she warned him. Don’t let anyone study things too closely!

All of these seemingly harmless statements had tripped almost flippantly from Deeanna’s tongue on the three or four occasions when Jonathan had commented about the appearance of fresh funds. On their own, of little importance, but collectively…

He did not want to ask in case some delicate spell was broken; for he was certain that it could not last. It left him with the same old mixed-up feeling of inadequacy, countered by his admiration of Deeanna.

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Deeanna felt refreshed after her bath and wrapped herself in a soft cream bathrobe. The drive from London to North Norfolk always seemed long and tiring. As she dried her long almost black hair, she was enjoying the knowledge that she could be seen by the new man that Nigel had employed as a gardener—if he chose to look up at the window. It was an unspoken game that they played. She watched his tanned and rippling muscles as he worked, and admired the superb physique of the man. She allowed him to glimpse her as she moved past one window and then the other in the large master bedroom.

Deeanna remembered the first time they had played the game a few weeks before. Their eyes had met as Deeanna had entered the house, and he had stood to one side, pausing from his attentions to the wisteria that clung to the front of the house. From her window, shortly afterwards, she had seen him again, and as if he had known she would be there, he had looked up at the window. She feigned disinterest and slowly removed her shoes, and when she looked up again he was removing his shoes. He glanced again at the window.

Deeanna’s heartbeat had quickened. She wanted to prove that she had not imagined it. Slowly she unbuttoned the jacket of her suit and slipped her arms out until it fell to the floor. She watched—not directly, but in her dressing-unit mirror. The Greek god below unbuttoned his denim shirt one button at a time, unrolled the sleeves, and pulling the shirt from his trousers, let it drop to the ground. Deeanna removed her earrings and held them for a moment before dropping them into the open jewellery box. A chain from around the man’s neck was unclasped and dropped onto his shirt with a similar gesture. He was smiling, but did not look up again.

They had played the game twice, but Deeanna was tantalised by her uncertainty about the man’s feelings. Was he excited by the game—as she was—or just laughing at her childishness, perhaps? They had never spoken to each other.

She realised, of course, that ultimately, she had the upper hand. She could stop the game whenever she wanted to—and she could always get the man sacked if necessary.

The following morning dawned bright over the Norfolk landscape and the warmth of the sun soon dispelled the wisps of mist that clung to the lawns and lower ground around the small lake.

Deeanna left the stables riding her mare Serenity and entered the paddocks to the rear of the buildings. There was nothing she liked more than to ride alone in the early morning. It freed her spirit and she used the time to do some serious thinking.

Her thoughts now were of the family gathering at Longwold Manor after her father had died so suddenly. Her brother Jonathan had been obliged to take over the running of the house and estates in the Cotswolds, and it quickly became clear that, financially, the family was in serious trouble. It had come as a shock to them both to discover that the fortune that they had always thought was firmly behind the family, no longer existed.

Her father the late Duke had, it seemed, speculated in some high-risk, high-profit deals that had not been a wise strategy, and he had been obliged to pay out some very large sums of money when a series of unexpected disasters in a short space of time had rocked the world of insurance underwriters. The coffers were virtually emptied overnight.

The worry of it all, Deeanna was sure, finally killed her father just three weeks after she had left school. His death had put paid to any plans her brother had made for the future, but they were both agreed on one thing. They were going to keep the family home and the surrounding estate, whatever it cost them. They decided, after long consultations with the dowager duchess and Deeanna’s mother, that the portion of the estate which had been bought and added to the rest in 1902, would have to be sold again.

Deeanna’s mother, Susan, was a weak, flighty lady who had always been unable to make the simplest of decisions. It was from Susan that Deeanna had inherited the stunning beauty that she had learned how to use to her own advantage at a very early age.

Deeanna’s eyes were large, almond shaped, and very blue, with unusually long dark lashes that curled provocatively, and would be envied by many a model. Her brows arched above them with fine smooth curves below a high forehead, and her perfectly straight but delicate nose gave her a profile that, together with a slender neck, made photographers and painters alike simply itch to take up the tools of their trade. Even in winter there seemed to be a light tan to her silky smooth skin, set against the well-coloured lips that were as beautiful in serious study as they were tantalisingly inviting when she smiled. Their colour was faintly echoed on the high cheekbones, giving the overall effect of some hint of foreign blood in her.

Susan’s natural hair colour was not so dark, and so she had always preferred to be blonde. The likeness was obvious between mother and daughter, and whilst both women were stunningly beautiful, Susan’s face was more oval and her eyes were lighter. She was, unfortunately, not very intelligent and the late Duke had married her for her looks—and his pleasure. She had managed to embarrass him on more than one occasion during their early life together when she was quickly labelled ‘a dumb blonde’.

The dowager duchess, on the other hand, was a very astute lady, and Deeanna admired her tremendously. She had continued to run the house as she had always done. Susan felt almost terrorised by her mere presence and gladly took a back seat. She was a dutiful wife and mother but became, over the years, a nervous and vague shadow of her original self. Genetically, Deeanna had inherited everything else from her father and grandmother, it seemed. She was grateful for that.

All this meant consequently that her mother could be discounted, from their discussions leaving the three of them to work together to achieve their aims. And so it had been decided that her grandmother would control the running of the house whilst her brother ran the estate and tried to increase their income from it.

Deeanna had been in Canada staying with friends when the news of her father’s death arrived. She had planned to enjoy herself for at least a year, after finishing her education.

The survival of the family seat was not something that she had ever consciously thought about while she was still at school. It was not a subject that she thought she would ever have to study. Her father had told her that she would be sent off on a world tour on completion of her education, and on her return she could then decide what she wanted to do with her life.

You will eventually marry, of course, her grandmother had told her. So what you do in the meantime is up to you. I believe it is important for a woman to know what she wants from life in this day and age, and she should formulate some personal goals to achieve fulfilment of herself. She will find herself settled down to marriage and a family all too soon. Once that happens, she is governed to a large extent by her husband and his life-style—whatever that might be.

Deeanna had listened to the advice, which had been given to her when she was 16—two years before she finished school—but she had not then considered it seriously.

She had thought about starting up some sort of design studio for clothes or furnishing fabrics, perhaps. But it all seemed like a lot of hard work—and to Deeanna ‘work’ was not a high priority when she could be enjoying herself doing other things.

Her main attention at that time had been given over to the world tour, and she had wallowed in the envy of her schoolmates. Her wider circle of friends, who were mostly going to university, was encouraging her to do likewise after her tour.

Her father’s death would have a considerable impact on all the family, but Deeanna could not have foreseen how it would change the course of her own life. Ultimately, she was left with an all-consuming passion of an unexpected nature. A desire to make money—and still more money—to ensure the survival of the home she loved. Perhaps, she mused, her ancestors were rattling their bones and sending her some strong messages. Whatever it was, she had been surprised at the strength of her own determination.

Her first firm decision was to find herself a rich husband. Once the startling idea had settled into her mind, she had set about the task with relish. It did not matter if she loved him—this was business! She started with a list of all the eligible bachelors amongst their extensive circle of friends and acquaintances. ‘Eligible’ meant rich. There were many who had titles or were otherwise well connected, and many who were—to all intents and purposes—‘desirable’ if one was looking for a husband. But Deeanna realised that she would probably have to settle for someone much older than herself who looked like ‘the back of a horse-box’. Whilst she had smiled at this thought at the time, she knew the naked truth of it. Money—and lots of it—was the only factor that she was prepared to consider.

The only ‘eligibles’ she had not included were widowers and divorcees.

Deeanna had slowed Serenity to a walk before climbing the rise to the stand of pines at the north-eastern edge of the estate. At the top of the rise she dismounted and took off her riding hat. She always enjoyed the view from this elevated corner of her world. From it one could see over the fields and the narrow road past the gamekeeper’s cottage, down to the lake and Croughton Hall itself. In the distance, she could just see the North Sea.

She remembered now the occasion when her brother Jonathan had first told her about Nigel. They had been looking at some documents in the study at Longwold Manor, when he mentioned casually that he had a spare ticket for the Albert Hall in London.

You’ve never been to a Proms last night, he said. Why don’t you join us? It’s bound to be lots of fun. They are a good crowd and it will do us both good.

He told her who else was going and added: You’ll like Nigel—he is in Parliament. His wife left him a few years ago. I don’t suppose you remember him, do you?

It was several years since she had seen Nigel. He had been working abroad and she had been a rather gawky young teenager at boarding school. She could vaguely recall the tall man with dark good looks.

Now, looking back, she realised that she had done very little towards ‘catching’ him. It was Nigel who had done the wooing, and once she had established that—financially—he would do very nicely, she simply said ‘Yes’ and let herself drift, or rather be swept, into the tide of events leading up to her society wedding. She had held him off long enough to persuade him to make a very sizeable settlement, which she choose to call a marriage contract, and her grandmother had been very helpful with advice, behind the scenes as it were, to ensure that Deeanna got what she wanted.

It had been easy to convince Nigel that the worries of her own family’s decline in fortune had to come first in her priorities, and that she intended to devote a few years to helping her brother recoup some of the losses. She did not see how marriage could be successfully combined with this, she had told him. It was such a big and obvious carrot to dangle in front of him that she was almost surprised when he came up with a solution so readily. Surely he could see what she was doing? This was going to be too easy, she thought.

It was disconcerting to discover that he was genuinely head over heels in love with her, because she regarded the marriage as a business arrangement, a survival strategy and nothing more. She did not intend to live with him until death did them part—but just until financial requisites demanded that she move on to richer pastures!

Two squirrels leapt from a low branch and then chased each other to the top of one of the pines.

A cloud scudded across the scene below her. A light breeze rippled the surface of the lake, and a few mallards taxied and flew up, circling over the hall. Mounting Serenity again, she made her way slowly back to the stables, thinking again about her husband.

Deeanna knew she had him in the palm of her hand. She enjoyed this game. She felt the power of it—the being in charge. This man was besotted with her, she knew, and would play by her rules. So long as she remained in control of the situation all would be well, and she could have fun at the same time. The thrill of it gave her a buzz. She was living life on the edge—just as she liked it—with that added touch of fear… Fear? No. That was not the word she had meant to use. Exhilaration—that was closer, but not strong enough. Nigel would become her weapon and all she had to do was know when to use him. Life was like a game of chess, and it had been so easy to play out this game. Now all that remained was to make the rest of the moves one by one using her calculating efficiency, to draw it to a close. She would have undone her family’s misfortunes, taken them all to their former financial glory and beyond, and at the same time, become a rich and powerful woman in her own right. If it took five years she would still only be 25 years old, and the world would still be at her feet.

When she dismounted again in the stable yard Maxine came out to greet her.

Deeanna had been uncertain about Nigel’s choice of stable hand when she had first met Maxine. She was a thick-set girl with unfortunately large black eyebrows and a hint of a moustache. She was the daughter of a single woman who lived in the village, and an American serviceman, and she had not been endowed with much intelligence. She was slow-witted and lumbered around rather than walking. She did, however, have a passionate love of horses and astonished everyone who met her with her astute knowledge of them. Nigel had paid her a fair wage to stay at the hall, feeling partially guilty that her limited, though excellent talents were wasted looking after just one animal.

Deeanna quickly came to appreciate her, and could rely on both superb care and exercise for Serenity whenever she was away from home, or unable to ride the mare herself. Maxine was always at the stables at the crack of dawn, hoping, secretly, that she would be able to exercise Serenity.

The two women exchanged greetings and talked for several minutes before Deeanna excused herself and went to the house.

CHAPTER TWO

At the age of 16 Marti Jones began work in a small factory in Peterborough. He had been in the town for a week living in one room that he had rented from a family whose children and dogs seemed to overflow from the two-storey house. For the short time that he was there he was treated as one of the family, and each day he went out looking for work. The father of this large family had helped by making enquiries, and trekked around with Marti while he looked for gainful employment.

It cuts both ways, the man said. You need a job to pay your rent, and I need money to help feed the kids. He pointed out that if Marti were unemployed and drawing benefit he would have to say where he was lodging. If that happened it would mean reduced dole money for the man because he would be receiving income from the letting of the room. Man and boy understood each other.

The work in the factory was monotonous, but Marti was content for the time being because he was free. He had broken all ties with his childhood years, and for the foreseeable future had closed the door on that chapter of his life. He did not intend staying long at the factory, or living in his present lodgings in case anyone came looking for him.

The annual works outing had been discussed over lunches in the canteen from the day he started work, and the majority vote amongst the workers had come out in favour of a trip to Amsterdam. Marti decided to save up, and go with them.

They talked about what they would see. The women tittered and giggled, and teased the men—especially the younger lads like himself. The men talked too, of past—or intended—visits to the red-light district for which the city is renowned. They painted vivid pictures in the minds of their younger inexperienced workmates, of prostitutes who sat half-naked behind dimly lit windows. They urged the lads to give them a try, and the girls in the factory teased them still more, calling them virgins, but they also warned them of all the possible nasty consequences.

Before he knew it, Marti was in Amsterdam, and all the canteen lunchtime talking had become a reality.

On arrival, they had split into three main groups, management and their spouses going off in search of their own enjoyment in the city, whilst the workers mostly divided themselves into male and female groups. Marti found himself getting a bit bored, having trekked from one bar to another with the men for several hours, and announced that he had not come all that way just to get pissed, and he was going off on his own to explore the city.

Now yoo be careful, laddie, warned his foreman in a broad Scottish accent. Don’t be tempted, is my advice to yee. Yev nay experience o’ these things and yee can find yersen in a whole heap o’ trouble. Keep yer money well hidden and don’t flash it aboot either, yer hear?

I hear you, Scotty. Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything daft. I just want to see more of the place than the inside of every bar! said Marti.

The others cheered and whooped as he left and their crude comments were still ringing in his ears, so he shoved his hands into his pockets, grinned over his shoulder at them and turned east towards the area of the city he had been advised was ‘a bit dodgy’. Just looking wouldn’t hurt, he decided.

A young man brushed past him as he stood looking at the goods on display in a sex shop window. He clutched his wallet instinctively and looking to see who had pushed him, he was struck by the coincidence that this chap should look so much like the boy from the foster home in Heigham Street, in Norwich.

He turned to take another look, and found himself staring at an equally surprised Terry.

Bloody hell! Terry sniffed. How are you doing, mate? he asked as if he had seen Marti only yesterday.

I’m all right. I’m here for the day. Just having a look around. You gonna show me the sights, then? asked Marti.

I’m working. But I will see what I can do.

Marti thought how pale and spotty Terry looked, and wondered if he had a cold or whether he was taking drugs, and he still seemed young enough to pass for a schoolboy. Just over four years had gone by since they had both appeared as witnesses at Norwich Crown Court, and if Terry was remembering the outcome of the case he certainly wasn’t showing it. Marti and Terry had let down the other boy, John, badly that day. They should have supported him.

A large silver car pulled to a stop beside them.

My boss, said Terry, sidling over to the car, sniffing loudly again. Marti watched with interest. A large man was studying him intently from behind the tinted glass window of the sleek car, and Marti knew they were talking about him.

Big Joe was in a good mood for a change. He was interested in knowing more about this young man. He looked as though he could probably be persuaded to do a little business for him.

Bring him up. I would like to talk to him, Joe said, waving his cigar to the man in the driving seat, before Terry could recover from his surprise.

Bloody hell! You’ve made a good impression, he said. He wants to see you back at ‘the works’.

Where’s that? asked Marti.

Just up there on the left. The sex shop, said Terry, sniffing again as he pointed up the street.

Marti laughed. What exactly do you do at ‘the works’?

Whatever Big Joe wants doing, and sometimes I mind the shop.

Big Joe—what’s his business, then? asked Marti.

Let’s get up there, Terry said without answering him directly. He is Mr Big around here, so treat him with respect, he warned.

Within an hour of leaving the others in the bar, Marti found himself in the pink and white apartment of one of Amsterdam’s best-known ‘ladies’.

Leanda had been working in the city for several years and was well-known for her ‘accommodating’ outlook. Around the city she had become known as Leanda ‘anything’. This attitude to her profession had not left her without physical and mental scares, as she had come into contact with most of the kinky types who were often sent to her by those of her colleagues who preferred straight sex, no hassle, clientele. Her protector and pimp—Big Joe—was quite happy to make an extra bit of income from her, and enjoy her favours as well.

In recent years she had been obliged to try some very unusual methods of arousing him sexually, and now, although he was impotent, he still called her to his bed or joined her when she had finished ‘work.’ She mothered him, and he liked that. She had taken to washing his clothes, doing his housework and even bathing him, so he felt he was getting the best of both worlds.

Leanda was not getting any younger, and dreading what the future might hold for her, had tried to write her own insurance policy with him. He had promised her, while she whipped his ample bare rump one night, that he would make sure she could always stay in the flat, but he had forgotten about it by the following morning. She was waiting for the right moment to remind him of his promise.

Marti wished his workmates could see him right now, just so he could see their faces.

Leanda tried to persuade the two young men to stay and have a Chinese supper with her. Marti could see that Terry didn’t like the idea, and he had to meet up with the others as arranged.

A voice boomed from somewhere beyond the pink-and-whiteness into which Marti had relaxed, and he stood up when Leanda beckoned him to follow her. She ushered him into the room where Big Joe sat behind a desk. Marti was prepared to listen with an open mind to whatever the big man wanted to say to him, and if it meant a job—well, he would consider it.

A full hour and a-half later, Big Joe had learned most of Marti’s life history through the string of questions that he had fired at him.

Would you consider working for me? he asked.

What would you want me to do? asked Marti.

Mr Big liked the boy’s approach. I need someone to be a courier for me. He waited for Marti’s reaction.

Taking what, to where? asked Marti.

A few packages, from Cromby, which you know, and take them to Manchester.

Cromby? said Marti with great interest.

That’s where they come ashore, said Big Joe.

Packages of what? asked Marti.

You like the bloody cards on the table, don’t you, said the big man studying him.

If I’m going to do the job properly—yeah, replied Marti.

How do you feel about taking risks?

If the money’s right, replied Marti at once. So what is it?

Heroin and cocaine, said Big Joe simply.

For a moment the hairs stood up on the back of Marti’s neck.

They discussed details, and Marti said that it would take him months to earn that type of money in the factory.

How often do I do a run?

You’re talking as though you’ve already got the job, said the big man.

You wouldn’t have told me so many details if you hadn’t been sure I could do the job, Marti said calmly.

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Very occasionally—in the quiet of the night—Marti thought back to his early childhood. He would open a secret door in his mind where he could dimly see violent scenes between his parents. His father had been away most of the time at sea on a trawler that sailed out of Grimsby. The only reason the family was in Norfolk at all was because his mother’s parents lived there.

His mother had removed herself and Marti one grey morning from their home in Cleethorpes when their father was at sea, bundled them into a train with a few suitcases and turned up, unexpectedly, on his grandparents’ doorstep.

His mother still bore the bruises from his father’s latest homecoming that had degenerated into another drinking session. Marti was four years old.

He could clearly remember the next eight months that were spent at his grandparents’ house. They were halcyon days. He played in the meadow behind the house with his mother, and went for walks with his grandmother in the woods with their dog.

Then one day the atmosphere changed. His father reappeared in their lives. His mother was not happy and did not play and laugh with him any more. They moved into a house at the other end of the village where they occupied the top floor only. Marti made friends with the Edmunds children in the flat below, and whenever he could he would knock on their door and play with them.

His father seemed to be at home most of the time now. Marti learned in later years that he had lost his job. He was keeping his family on the dole, and did a few odd jobs for extra money when he could. His mother worked, and Marti started school.

Then one morning he went to the nursery school as usual, and he remembered his mother had told him that she was going to Norwich with his father in the rattling old van that his father had acquired.

I’ll be back at tea time, so you be a good boy and go home with Mrs Edmunds and play with the boys until we get back. She repeated the instructions again when they got to the school and kissed him goodbye, waving as she got into the van.

The van had been involved in an accident with a lorry. His father was killed outright and his mother died three weeks later in hospital in Norwich.

His grandparents had taken him to see her, and he remembered the bandages wrapped around her head and the smell of the hospital. She had looked at him with a strange expression in her dark sunken eyes and asked who he was. Marti had cried for a long time, and somehow knew he was on his own from now on.

When his mother died, it was as though he had already done his mourning. He could cry no more. He stood forlornly at a graveside for the second time in a month, and just felt cold inside. No tears could spring to his eyes to ease the pain. A warm May shower of rain fell on the new suit and shoes that his grandparents had bought for him. Someone handed him a red rose and he threw it on to the coffin, copying his grandfather. His mother had liked flowers.

Of the weeks that followed, Marti could remember very little, and then one morning he awoke to the sounds of other boys laughing and jumping on their beds in the dormitory of the children’s home. This was to be his home for several years. He did not know why his grandparents had left him there, and he was afraid to ask. He did not want to be told that they did not want him, and on the other hand, if something had happened to them…

He could only see more pain of the kind he had known when his mother had died.

The one thing that Marti liked during this period of his life was school, and he worked hard at his lessons. When he was eleven, his teachers recommended that his name be put forward for a grant-assisted place at a grammar school in Norwich. All he knew about Norwich was that there was a large hospital there, and a castle that stood on a hill. The castle housed a museum and he had visited it on a school outing.

To attend the school in Norwich would mean a one-hour train journey every day, so efforts were to be made to find him a foster home in the city. Marti knew that he would be very lucky to be out of the children’s home. It was usually only the younger children who were found places.

He had travelled to school by train and back again every day for the first term, and the more testing pace of lessons at the grammar school, together with his homework, kept him fully occupied. At one point he had given serious thought to doing his homework on the train, but his classmates on the train soon changed his mind for him. They were a mischievous bunch of lads, and Marti thoroughly enjoyed the respite from the day’s labours before he got off the train. His stop was the last one before the end of the line at Cromby.

One day the boys were playing a spy game when Marti and his friend found themselves arriving at Cromby. They had been hiding in the toilets, and had completely missed their station. Paul—known as Patch to his friends because of the leather patches he always wore on his blazer elbows—took charge of the situation.

Got any money? he asked.

They had turned out their pockets and found enough to make a phone call and left the station yard to ring the children’s home to say that Marti would be back later. Marti would have had no tea if he had not let them know—those were the rules. Patch was not worried. His folks would simply expect him on the next train. The call made, they returned to the station, just as the train was disappearing round the bend, past the signal box and out of sight. The boys looked at each other…

What do we do now? We haven’t got the fares back, said Marti with alarm.

Let’s go down to the beach and think about it, laughed Patch.

The two boys raced out of the station and headed up the road towards the sea. Arriving at the top of the cliff they stopped by the railings to get their breath back. Below them the sea sparkled invitingly.

Last one in is a pratt! laughed Patch as he raced down the slope in front of the pier.

Marti hesitated only for a second before he ran whooping down the slope after Patch, his arms outstretched like a plane and his school bag flying behind him.

They reached the sand beneath the pier, threw off their shoes and socks and rolled up their trouser legs. Marti thought he had never been so happy. They picked their way over rock pools to the water’s edge and then ran laughing through the shallow ripples, splashing their legs as they ran. When they were out of breath they turned and began to walk back slowly through the rock pools, turning over the stones and finding baby crabs and sea anemones.

They made their contented way back to the station and waited a long time for the next train. Their teeth chattered and they were cold through their wet trousers. They found that by giving the conductor on the train their addresses, he would let them travel home. They got away with this scam twice more before the end of term arrived. Marti had been in trouble on all three occasions when he had returned late, but he was unrepentant. On the last occasion they had gone into the amusement arcade and played the machines, and bought hot dogs that they covered in tomato sauce and ate out of the paper as they walked up the road. Patch had supplied the money.

He told Marti: I nicked it from my dad’s pocket.

A married couple came to see him one evening after supper at the children’s home, but he did not think he liked them very much. He had been excited at the prospect of moving out of the home, so he concluded that his expectations had been too high. They did not seem as friendly as they should be, and they had not spoken to him much but had directed their questions to the adults in the room.

No-one seemed concerned enough to ask if he were happy with the arrangement, and if they had, he would have found it difficult to explain. The arrangements were made and he learned that these people had already taken in other boys in similar circumstances. Marti was told he was extremely lucky to find foster parents, as people did not usually take in twelve-year-old boys. Most people preferred babies or very young children. He was off to start an exciting new life in a big city, they said, and they convinced him that they were right. He began to doubt his own instincts.

Marti’s things were packed and his new foster parents were in the building somewhere. He had said goodbye to some of the other children, and the house mother had asked him to promise that he would go back to see her when he had settled into his new life. She had thrown her arms around him and squashed him to her ample bosom. As they sped away down the leafy drive, Marti could still feel the long forgotten sensation of being hugged.

He sat in the back of the car with his belongings in a large battered suitcase, two carrier bags and his school satchel. The woman occasionally turned to speak to him, but there was no warmth in her smile, he realised. He answered her questions as light-heartedly as he could—perhaps they needed his help to break the ice, he thought.

By the time they had reached the city boundary, however, Michael and Linda Morris, sitting in the front of the car, had completely forgotten Marti sitting in the back, and they were arguing loudly. They were, in fact, shouting at each other. Marti looked out of the window pretending interest in the passing sights, but of course he was listening to the arguments. He couldn’t make much sense of it, though, and suspected that this was the continuation of a row that had gone on before.

They arrived at the house in Heigham Street and as Marti looked at the red brick exterior, he noticed a curtain move in an upstairs window. A boy’s face peered down at the car and then disappeared.

The two other boys had come to the house from children’s homes. John had been there for about two years and Terry was about to leave. It had been decided that they would share a room until the eldest actually left and Marti was to have a room of his own.

Tea was eaten in silence around the plastic-clothed table in a gloomy kitchen. It consisted of individual beef pies that had been purchased on their way back from Cromby. They had not been heated through thoroughly, and Marti’s was cold in the middle. Mashed potato, tinned peas and a trickle of gravy completed the main course and this was followed by tinned rice pudding with a spoonful of raspberry jam.

The two boys eyed him curiously across the table and occasionally gave each other meaningful looks that Marti did not understand. Terry and John had been used to having their own rooms, and now Marti realised, they would be sharing a room to make way for him. He misinterpreted their attitude towards him as resentment. It would not be long before he realised that there was a totally different and more sinister side to life at Heigham Street.

John was relieved that Marti had arrived and that Terry was to share his room, but he was already sorry for Marti—knowing what almost certainly lay ahead for him. He hoped that attention would be diverted away from himself, but at the same time he felt guilty. Michael would probably set up the film stuff again and make this new boy watch. Above all he wanted to warn Marti, but what good would it do, he asked himself.

Terry was afraid, just as he had been when John had first arrived at the house. He remembered the sounds from that room. Michael Morris’s voice, low and cajoling at first. John’s voice—pleading, rising as he begged and argued. Then the sounds of slapping and a struggle—furniture being knocked about and eventually Michael Morris leaving the room—locking the door behind him. He remembered most of all the deep and seemingly endless sobs as John was left to the depths of his desolation.

Terry also remembered coming home