Thief of Memories

By J. D. Neill

Three lives are on a collision course-a thief, a naïve woman, and a detective.

The calculating and heartless thief fills gaping holes in his psyche by stealing and inflicting wounds on vulnerable women. But Lisa was supposed to be his salvation. Optimistic and creative, she cannot believe the thief had a stolen identity when he

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lanni LV LLC
• Release date: Oct 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737557616

J. D. Neill

J D Neill hated the cold in England-the country of her birth. After a holiday in the sunshine, she spent two years in Italy and traveled on to teach English in the Middle East. The vibrant lifestyle gave no indication that the country was on the brink of civil war. Held hostage, her sense of normality and sanity came through keeping a diary. The written word would become her future. Fleeing civil war, like many before her, she discovered America, the land of her dreams. And, after a lengthy gestation, in 2019, her first novel Disintegration was born. Chameleon, Unraveling, and Loophole followed in 2020. The Shattering Effect, Downfall, The Captive and Thief of Memories in 2021. The Jailbird's Daughter-A Memoir, will both be released in January 2022.

Book preview

One

Job Done

I CANNOT BELIEVE HOW EXHAUSTING it is, just digging.

All being well, later tonight, when the world around once again sleeps, Lisa hopes to plant him. She wants it to be pretty. She never imagined it would take so long to remove the topsoil and excavate to the design as planned.

Sweat beads on Lisa’s forehead, and more slides down her back. She remembers her grandmother’s words. Men sweat; ladies gently glow.

What would she say if she could see me now? I imagine she would have a strong opinion of this once-unimaginable situation.

At five foot three, Lisa does not give the impression of strength. But years as a swimmer have built her stamina and strong shoulders. The start she made last night was a token effort—more about working off her anxiety and fear than any real progress. Delineating the area to be excavated made her forget for a moment. But how can she forget, is it possible?

She has been digging all day to accommodate the main basin of the bed, adding a little more for the unplanned addition. Now, after last night’s event, the hole has to be extra deep. It would not do for someone to come along and find him. Pretty unlikely, but an ounce of prevention.…

After she sets the rocks and greenery on top, she must follow the step-by-step instructions for her reed bed—her personal soak-away. After that—fait accompli. There will be no more worries for about ten years until she needs to replace or upgrade it. Plenty of time to decide what long-term plans may be necessary.

Fortunately, in rural Brittany, disposing of waste in this way is not an unusual thing. Mains plumbing is rare once you get out of the towns and villages. Many farmers have never considered it a worry—miles of fields to use. But none of them have needed to dispose of a problem like hers.

Lisa’s arms and shoulders ache, and her back is killing her, but she doesn’t care. It is worth it for this enormous relief. Dick has taken his last pound of flesh, and he cannot do anything more to her or anyone else.

Downing tools, she collapses onto the step of her lovely little stone cottage. Still hers—despite his threats of taking this, too. An involuntary sound escapes her, half sigh—half moan.

How did it come to this? All she ever wanted was a productive and peaceful life among her various creative endeavors. If possible, a secure future for her son. Was it so much to wish for? Of course, the love of a man who would not take advantage of her would be a welcome bonus.

Lisa loves the long days of the northern hemisphere, where it is light until after nine at night. Today, there is still a little sunshine left, and she leans against the rough wall. The warmth from the afternoon sun heats her back, and she gazes over the colorful, well-planted garden.

She has always felt at peace here, despite all those years of work. So many plans and dreams—before she met Dick. It had been a labor of love; even though, at times, it was an almost overwhelming amount of work. Lisa regularly trekked over on the ferry to work on what had once been an abandoned ruin. Each summer holiday, every long weekend, and any other time she had off, she devoted herself to this escape.

It has paid off. Now, the smallish property is lush, a panoply of local flowers and various cuttings brought with her from England over the past decade. You could plant a broom handle here, and it would grow.

It was always to be the home in which she would spend summers after she retired. She had never expected necessity would bring her here so soon, and for always.

After her divorce, the division of assets, and more recently, the annulment, it is the only place she can afford—mortgage-free.

In the distance, the faint bwobob-bwobob of Monsieur Lefleur’s tractor, heading from the fields, tells her he is low in coolant, as usual. The sound fades and disappears into the distance.

Except for the professionally installed roof, Lisa did every job herself. She is proud of how she turned her hand to all the building and installation work. What a mess it was at the start—no roof to speak of, no electricity or plumbed water, and only a dirt floor.

Chills tingle her hairline, a spooky reminder of the dozens of spiders in those early days. And, between visits, mice, and rats chewing away at whatever she had brought over. Now all the cracks and crannies are sealed, and, if not Architectural Digest quality, it is a beautiful, well-finished gem. And all done with her own blood, sweat, and frequent tears.

Lisa pulls a bottle of white wine from the tiny outside fridge—her one extravagance—so convenient at the end of the day. She no longer needs to traipse in debris from the garden to treat herself to refreshment. She over pours—a large helping, surprised at the shake in her hands—a delayed response, no doubt. It has been a stressful few days, weeks actually, and she needs a drink—she has earned it.

Mouth salivating in anticipation, she starts at a rustle in the bushes. Her heart pounds, and she bites her lip. Guilty conscience—need to work on that, she thinks. Unseen, a small wild creature scurries home, and she lifts the glass of chilled white wine to her lips. Condensation runs down the outside. It dampens her still slightly grubby fingers and leaves traces of earth.

I should have used soap, not just rinsed my hands under the garden hose, but who is there to complain, now? Complaints are a thing of her past. She gulps at the drink. The icy liquid slides down her throat enters her bloodstream, and Lisa exhales. Her hands stop trembling. Job well done. It is remarkable how far she has come with the home improvements.

She hoped to put in a Klargestor—the high-performance sewage treatment system for homes lacking main drains. This natural breakdown of sewage is a worry-free way to deal with waste disposal. But Dick took it all, every penny, and then he tried to take more. He has made sure there is no money left for such an extravagance.

Anyway, a machine would not have worked for the piece of waste she needs to remove. God, is that too horrible a thought? Does it say something about her?

Vertical flow reed beds are ideal. They are great for stripping ammonia—the stinky part of septic tank effluent. According to the manuals, they are also an important habitat for birds and wildlife. Lisa has doubts about that. All the wildlife she could take is about to be buried as soon as darkness falls.

No more nagging, no more fits at each full moon, no more sarcasm. Most of all, no more of the controlling behavior that she could not resist. How could she have thought it was love?

Given her limited options—it is the ideal outcome. Not Dick’s death, of course. Although, to all those he damaged, his departure from the world is no significant loss.

What led them to this? In the end, Dick gave them no choice. Her family never liked him, especially her sister Sarah. Now with the benefit of the rearview mirror, she can see why.

Water under the bridge—or over the body. Dick brought it on himself.

She pours another glass, hoping for reassurance that she is not to blame. If he had left her alone—if he had left them all alone, none of this would have happened.

The garden tools—the fork, spade, hoe, and shovel rest against the wall. They all need cleaning, but that can wait for tomorrow. Lisa’s limbs are too heavy to handle the task. Almost there, stop thinking about it—no point in fretting.

She takes another swig, but a lump in her throat makes it hard to swallow. No matter how much she drinks, her mouth remains dry.

Lisa is still worried for her son, Cory, and confused by the mystery surrounding what has happened to him. The doctors promise he will survive. Tomorrow, she needs to finish here so that she can go to him.

She strokes her throat, a distracted motion that stains her neck with a soft muddy streak. A slow smile plays on her lips—the first in a while. It conveys her sense of relief that the end is in sight, but there is no one to see it. Dick is no more, and despite the doubts and protests, her sister left this morning.

It is all Dick’s fault. Lisa’s head tells her that is a fact. But her heart, the part of her that until recently ruled her life, still wonders.

When did I become this person? Will I go to hell?

Too late for reflection, the deed is done, and there’s no going back. Not that Lisa would if she could. Not unless she could go back to the beginning when she first met him and could turn the other way. But she did not, and here they are.

Two

Targeted

IN HIS LATE FORTIES, JOHN Marsh does not fit the look of a typical detective—if such a thing exists. Tall, rugged, and keen at sports, he is eagle-eyed, with the pensive manner of a university professor. His dark hair is thick, and his smile is warm, revealing strong white teeth.

John had considered a career as a model or an actor for a year or two when he was young. Many of the girls in his college days considered him a superstar. But, life as an actor was too risky. His parents had died in a violent accident when he was a teen, and from early on, perhaps because of the blow to his head, he had developed unusual gifts. With them came responsibilities.

Apart from any other consideration, Marsh had already fallen for the girl he would marry. Now, after more than twenty years, he still loves and admires Sue, and the family they have built together offers him sanctuary. It all worked out.

Marsh’s chosen career has benefits and the possibility of early retirement. In a short while, at the age of fifty, there will still be years left to relax and please himself—or so he believes.

Life has a way of making the big decisions, he muses.

After the devastating accident years ago, John Marsh struggled with the onset of what he has now accepted and embraced as special skills. Over the course of his life, they have been a bonus.

Clairvoyance is well-known, but it is only one of four significant intuitive abilities—each unique. Claircognizance, the gift of information coming from some unseen ability, is accepted if unnamed. But, Clairaudience, the skill of clear hearing, and Clairsentience, the art of feeling, are often overlooked.

John Marsh has them all.

He follows his hunches, and over the years, it has reinforced his belief in his abilities. He continually practices and tests himself, grateful that his gifts help him in his chosen profession.

Despite his extra skills, one of the latest cases continues to challenge him and other jurisdictions along the south of England. And, when a reporter from the local newspaper approaches him, Marsh considers how he should handle it. They want an interview about a series of women who have come forward with claims of fraud. What appears to be one single culprit has brought these women together and is now a hot topic.

Although Marsh agrees to the interview, he hopes they will stick to the facts as they are and not touch on his singular, if lesser-known skills. It would be a distraction to focus on him and a disservice to the women.

Unfortunately, when the article appears in the press, it leads to a follow-up piece on the morning television show. And, after years of trying to remain low-key, now his face is seen across the south of England.

The ladies have formed a group, the host of the show says. They have a blog and are posting warnings to susceptible women. Tales of greed, heartlessness, and theft. Detective Marsh, are you able to comment?

Marsh turns as the camera grabs him in close-up. Behind him, a magnified shot of a computer flashes onscreen. An unreadable blog, with an image of a small group of middle-aged women, posed beside the computer. Some are smiling, but most appear sad. All are well-dressed and attractive.

There is no new evidence, so what can he say? Marsh’s words are a generalization and will offer little encouragement, but he has no choice but to say what he can to the press.

Since the beginning of time, a certain type of character has felt the need to profit by taking advantage of others. Tricksters and swindlers are not uncommon. Tragically, they prey on those who are vulnerable in some way—the aged, the young, the trusting, and the lonely.

The interviewer cuts in and points to the screen. These ladies are encouraging any woman who has been affected or cheated to join them. Feel free to add any experiences to their blog, he says. Check out the email address at the bottom of the screen. They hope awareness will act as a deterrent and a defense.

The host of the show looks concerned. As you see from the number of women, the character they highlight seems to have cast his net wide.

Marsh hopes his discomfort does not show. He is already aware of most of these stories, but….

You understand I cannot comment on ongoing cases. We have more crimes and criminals than the man these ladies are focusing on. But suffice it to say they have raised awareness—ours, as well as that of their followers.

Do you have specific leads, or can you shed light on new developments?

With the modern methods available, the internet and so on, it is possible for individuals to share their experiences and make others aware. It can help prevent future cases. So far, unfortunately, none of the contributors to the site has a photograph or a name for us to trace. It makes it difficult for us to be of much help.

What would be your advice to these ladies and other unsuspecting women out there?

The interviewer smiles at the screen, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. Not one line crinkles around his eyes.

Marsh recognizes neither the smile nor the sympathy reaches that high. He holds in his sigh. It would be great to offer consolation and encouragement. The police cannot repair wounded pride, hearts, or dignity, but it would be great to hope that the women might recover the funds taken. But, with no image, no real name, and since, by the time each woman discovers the fraud, the guy has already skipped, he is left with little to go on.

We have concluded, as they have highlighted, that all their experiences are possibly down to one particular individual. But he is skillful, slippery, and, if confronted, could be dangerous.

Slippery, huh? Arrogant bastard. Dick throws a shoe at the tv and turns down the volume.

You, ok? There is a soft knock on the door, and without waiting for a reply, it opens. The colleague from whom Dick has recently rented the room pokes in his head. I thought I heard a crash.

Just me venting. Dick slumps lower in his chair. He disliked the damn detective on sight. Looks more like James bloody Bond than a policeman, he mutters.

Chad glances at the screen. He does, doesn’t he? he laughs. How must it feel to look that great? I think he’s local. I’ve seen him around—a nice guy, I heard.

Not what Dick wants to hear. Seems like a know-it-all, to me. He picks up the paper and turns away, signaling that Chad should leave.

It works.

But the detective is right about one thing—the internet is a significant concern and a major nuisance. Years ago, it would have been easier to follow the path Dick has chosen. But years ago, he had no need and no inclination toward his current proclivity. The train crash created his problems, he is sure. After he was injured, there was little financial compensation, and life grew increasingly complicated. Now his needs determine his actions.

Topping it all, Dick’s marriage has not turned out as he had hoped. His wife, Margaret, turned off the flow of cash last year, and since then, he has been driven to find it elsewhere. Although this place gives him the flexibility he needs, he does not enjoy hanging out in this tiny rented room or spending all the time required to win over the gullible women—most of them.

Some are sweet enough, and but for their naïveté, he would respect and like them. But, for Dick, naïveté is another word for stupidity, and he cannot stand stupid people. In his view, they deserve what they get.

Dick gets up to turn off the tv, but distracted by his reflection in the mirror hanging above, he runs a hand across his chin and tries out a smile.

Unlike Detective Marsh, Dick was not gifted with traditional good looks. Being six feet tall and still slim is a plus, and his full head of curly hair was a benefit once—before it went grey. He attributes that to his problems with Margaret. But, in truth, his face has never been something to write home about.

Still, he has learned to compensate. Nature demanded that he develop charm, and a winning smile, if he wanted to get anywhere. His greatest skill comes from selecting the most likely targets and listening. It is the best of his assets. Whatever a woman’s personality, they all want to be heard.

He peers down at the silenced image of John Marsh. Why does the damned detective need those looks? Good-looking people have a distorted view of how the world operates. Doors open easily for them, and they have little appreciation for why. The man on the screen has a badge; he can open doors any time he wants, a handsome face is wasted on a cop.

For a moment, Dick wonders if Marsh has a vulnerability. Wouldn’t that be a kicker? He would love to let him experience what it is like to be wounded—wipe the smile off his face. It needs some research, but if he finds the delicate underbelly, Dick will let this pompous cop see what it is like to be disadvantaged.

The more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea.

Three

The Meeting

IN THE HALF-EMPTY BALLROOM OF a seafront hotel, lonely people sip cheap wine, nibble carrots, and crisps, and wish they were some-where else—somewhere less desperate. Many of them want serious relationships, some a quick one-nighter, but all are fighting the loneliness that is typical after a break-up.

Lisa’s divorce has been quick and final. She should have learned a thing or two about being conned. But, with an acute understanding that, although in her forties, part of Lisa remains naïve, her ex-husband assumed she would trust him. He was correct.

In what were to be the final days of their marriage, he presented what he said were their corporate tax returns. Lisa signed on the dotted line without reading the document. Just as he had expected. By handing over the assets of their company, she made it easy. Her open, trusting, and giving nature was easy to take advantage of.

Not one for moping, after licking her wounds for a while, Lisa’s unmarried friend invites her to a party. Unaware a singles’ club organizes it; she agrees to go. The only time Lisa attends such an event.

I know it’s not your usual way of meeting someone, her friend, Valerie, says. But, it gets harder as we get older. It’s better than an online dating site.

Lisa smiles. Valerie wants to fall in love and start over. Maybe that’s all it takes—a conviction that love is out there and available. Lisa admires Valerie’s single-mindedness but is uncertain she is ready to meet some-one new—start over. The divorce came as a shock, and the way her ex handled things inflicted a deep wound that is difficult to explain to others.

You’re better off without him, her family and friends all say. But they have judged the outcome and not the years during which she was happy. It was fine until the mid-life crisis whispered to his psyche that he needed a boat, a startlingly red sport’s car, and a new younger woman.

Once, her ex-husband had been fun, a good father, and had seemed considerate. The way he was at the end called his kindness into question, which was the hardest part—the dishonesty.

Now, her son is packing his room and going away to college in the middle of the country, and Cory’s departure from the family home will trigger the sale of her house, and her life will change—once again. This final part of the divorce settlement means she will soon be out of her home and alone. With half the sale price, she will have enough to buy a flat, if she is lucky.

Better than sitting home with the tv, or working until you are too exhausted to think. Valerie’s voice inserts itself, and her words resonate. Work and tv have become Lisa’s habit for the past year.

I wonder, she says, but here she is. The atmosphere is not uplifting. Lisa swears she can smell desperation in the air.

You hate it! Valerie says.

Lisa nods. Not to worry. Look around, and if you like it, we’ll stay. If not, let’s go for a meal. There’s a good Italian place a block away. Anyway, there’s a late-night movie I wanted to see on television.

Valerie heads for a refill, and Lisa finds a table at the edge of the room. The floaty red dress she chose was for a party, not this kind of mixer. She feels too fancy, wishes she had chosen a business suit. Still, as she sits, she can tell someone’s eyes are on her, and she turns.

Across the room, a man smiles. He waits for a while. He spotted Lisa when she entered. A pleasant surprise. Although prettily dressed, slim, and attractive, the woman appears uncomfortable. She has swept her blonde hair onto her head, and wisps have escaped, framing her face. From the wind along the seafront, he imagines.

She avoids eye contact with everyone