The Big Finish: Neil McKenzie Mysteries, #3

By Chris Grayling

Neil is in LA when Rachel Wallis gets married - to somebody else. Then, back in Kent, he reluctantly takes on a case for Calverley Investigations which puts him in a school again. So far so bad, except things are going to get worse – even teaching is preferable to being dead…and his past is catching up with him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Books
• Release date: Feb 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224716173

Book preview

Prologue

Whichever ever way you look at it, getting married is a significant milestone in your life. And so it was for Nick Rastelli. Momentous in fact – marrying her was the culmination of over two years of patient planning. From the first moment he’d met her in person he knew she was the one. It was love at first sight.

On that hot summer night in Monterrey, Nick had gone along reluctantly to the State Governor’s fund-raising party but that had all changed when he found himself sitting on the same table as her. Even more beautiful in the flesh than on the big screen, she was friendly and engaging in a way he’d never foreseen and by the end of the evening he was hooked.

The only problem, apart from the fact that he had no reason to believe she was similarly smitten with him, was that she was married. This might have put an ordinary man off, but not Nick. Some of his business interests were in the movie industry so he knew her husband and, more significantly, understood what he was like. Sooner or later, Nick reasoned, she would find out too and then the son of a bitch would be history. In fact, soon after he met her, Nick set up a meeting with a contact he’d used a few times in the past to facilitate the entrapment of men who’d stood between him and what he’d wanted. In one sense a marriage is just another business deal that can be hijacked, and it wasn’t long before the wheels were set in motion to bring a woman across Jack’s path.

In the end, Nick got lucky and Jack obliged by screwing his co-star before the temptress Nick’s contact had hired could spring a carefully choreographed honey-trap. When he was told the news, Nick ended the call and beat his fist on his desk and laughed harder than if he’d just been informed one of his ex-wife’s lovers had died in flagrante with her. After he’d calmed down, he spent a few minutes savouring the situation before an obvious course of action percolated into his head like a shot of bourbon introducing itself to his tongue.  He would leave it a few weeks before running into her accidently on purpose and taking it from there. He made arrangements to have her watched.

Except Rachel didn’t stay in LA and play obligingly into his hands. She disappeared within hours and only resurfaced weeks later out of reach in England. To compound his disappointment, within months she was seeing an Englishman, some unknown who got lucky and saved her life and with whom she seemed besotted. Lesser men might have given in to the randomness of fate. Not Nick. He was accustomed to shaping events - not going with the flow - which was, it seemed to him, one of the chief advantages of having a lot of money. His associates in England were mobilised to find out all they could about his new rival. 

Before long he knew who the unwelcome entrant into Rachel’s private life was. On the face of it he was an ordinary Joe: a teacher and as poor as an honest cop. Except that the guy had killed a man a few years ago. Shooting and killing, even if it was in self-defence, was rarer in England than a McDonalds with a Michelin star so that got Nick’s attention. Within a week he had a dossier on the victim Marc Gilbert to go with the one on Neil Mackenzie.

Nick eventually initiated a similar strategy for Mackenzie to the one he’d devised for Jack. But this time to no avail. After two occasions when Mackenzie had had temptation put into his lap the asshole hadn’t obliged. It seemed that his devotion to Rachel was genuine. Frustrated, Nick waited. Months went by: he was distracted by competition with his operations in South America and his pursuit of Rachel was nudged to the back-burner. Any plans for Mackenzie were also put on hold.

Finally, after over a year had passed, Nick saw Rachel out one evening with Mackenzie at a restaurant in Bel Air. He hadn’t introduced himself but watched them discreetly from his own table across the room. His date, a striking blonde with the body only a devotion to working-out and expensive surgery can achieve, had cost him five thousand dollars. It was a price worth paying when you want a head-turning date and your relationships short, commitment-free and to the point. She received less attention than her fee merited, however, because Nick’s gaze kept being drawn back to the smiling beauty whose own eyes seemed permanently fixed on her companion. He felt the passion of Monterrey rekindling in his guts and a grim realisation dawning that it would take more than the offer of clandestine sex to fix Mackenzie.

The next day Nick set in motion the wheels to have Mackenzie removed permanently. It would need a few weeks planning in liaison with his men in the UK, but better to be thorough than act on impulse: an approach that had served him profitably up to now. His friend at the London branch persuaded him to forget using the Gilbert connection to provide a false lead and to leave it to him to hire some local help to deal with Mackenzie. Once again, however, the fickle hand of fate intervened: he learnt that Rachel and Mackenzie had gone their separate ways.

The rest was, as they say, history. Good history from where Nick was standing on the deck of the Santa Monica 7 one day out from Athens and three from his and Rachel’s wedding. He should have been as content as a purring cat, but despite his good mood, small dark shadows in the form of thoughts of Neil Mackenzie kept partially blighting his revelries. It was just after dawn and he’d left Rachel sleeping after the long journey of the day before, so he had the deck to himself.

Nick scanned some distant island peaks that climbed out of the benevolent blue of the Med and reviewed his exchange with Mackenzie at the wedding. He realised it hadn’t been the best call in the world to confront the Englishman. It was a moment of impulse that he regretted, especially as a lack of control was as rare for him as snow in Alicante. The bastard’s cool and measured response had made it worse and the memory briefly revived Nick’s hatred of Rachel’s old lover. He thought about it some more and reached for his mobile.

1

‘You may now kiss the bride.’ There was no denying it, Rachel Wallis looked absolutely stunning. And that’s a word I hardly ever use – my own personal protest against its overuse by the easily impressed and those without an adequate personal vocabulary. The just-above-average can’t accurately be described as awesome or stunning but try telling that to the sort of idiot who has the imagination of a five-year-old.

She had on a simple, full length white gown that followed the outline of her torso and hips before falling unhindered to the floor. The neckline was high enough to take her cleavage out of the equation, but the dress was sleeveless so her lightly tanned arms were left bare. Rachel’s shoulder length dark brown hair hung loose in the style familiar to millions and on her face was the look of undisguised joy only a woman on her wedding day can achieve.  Movie stars, it’s said, are often a disappointment in real life - but not Rachel. She was witty and intelligent and mostly lacking in the prima donna traits one might expect in one of the most famous women in the world. I’d fallen in love with her more than two years ago in England, or was it Venice, and never quite managed to recapture my emotions since. So, when her new husband leant forward and planted his lips gently on hers I think the huge knot in my stomach could be forgiven.

‘That could have been you Slick,’ Rocky whispered sensitively from his seat next to me.

I wanted to ignore Tunbridge Wells’ answer to Del Boy, but I settled for leaning towards him and mouthing, ‘Piss off,’ raising my hand up to my face in case someone sitting behind me had a flair for lip-reading.

We were in Beverley Hills sitting among the glitziest wedding congregation this side of the Oscars. Over a hundred guests gathered under a white awning erected Hollywood style for the occasion. Erected by Nick Rastelli, the guy who owned the lawn and the man Rachel had chosen to be her husband number two. A clichéd but, I had to admit, beautiful setting for one of the most exclusive weddings of the year.

When the happy pair, who were standing along with the minister on a raised platform at the front, had decoupled and turned to face us I studied Rachel’s face, hoping to detect I don’t know what. Maybe, selfishly, I wanted there to be the faintest hint of regret etched in her features even though I knew on the one hand she was too good an actress to give anything like that away, while on the other I was simply being ridiculous. It was only a moment or two later, however, that my eyes strayed down towards her hands and I noticed the fine silver band on her right wrist.  I narrowed my eyes in an attempt to focus on it more clearly, suddenly aware that the knot in my stomach had tightened and was spreading up into my chest. It certainly looked like it - but it couldn’t be could it? Meanwhile I clapped along with the rest of the guests and joined in with all the smiling to emphasise how pleased I was with the whole thing.

Rocky turned to me again and grinned brightly. ‘Never mind Slick, you’ve still got me and Gere.’

Gere was sitting the other side of Rocky and leant forward and winked at me. I gave him a resigned look to indicate my sense of humour was still in operation and returned my attention back to the front. Like my two buddies, I was smartly turned out in an expensive single-breasted suit, white shirt and tie on that warm sunny April day. The remainder of Rachel’s and Nick’s families, friends and the movie elite that made up the male half of the congregation were similarly suited and booted. Gere had had his grey hair cut and almost looked like an American himself with his tall, slim build. In contrast, Rocky, with his shorter stocky frame and number one haircut could have been an off-duty bouncer save for the laughter lines engraved on his face. His black goatee, which came and went with his moods, was present and neatly trimmed for the occasion.

Most of the rest of the gathering were American or Canadian and as grateful as Rocky and Gere to be there. Rachel and her new husband’s wedding was one of the social occasions of the year, even for Hollywood. George Clooney was sitting somewhere behind us to give you an idea of the standard of celebrity present and the three of us had needed all of the help we could get to prevent ourselves being mistaken for part of the catering team.

We wouldn’t even have been present but for Rachel. She’d called me up about a month before, during one of my routine Sunday night TV fests.

‘Rachel,’ I said brightly after seeing who it was. ‘Everything okay in Tinsel Town?’

We spoke more or less every couple of weeks. It wasn’t like me to be mature and grown up at the end of a romance, but I’d made an exception in her case and the phone calls had continued. Now she almost qualified for old friend status, a category only one or two other women had ever managed to make it through the preliminary rounds to achieve.

She laughed. ‘Yeah, we’re great here. The sun’s shining, I’ve just got back from a run and I’m off to a party later. Sometimes I think I’ll take a sabbatical and enjoy this lifestyle for a couple of years.’

‘I’ll believe that when I see it – I should have nagged you more when I could.’

‘You never nagged me – maybe I would have listened.’

My turn to laugh. ‘No you wouldn’t – that’s why I never said anything. Anyway, I preferred you famous; it was good for my standing at the badminton club.’

‘Shut up Neil – I’ve got news and I wanted you to hear before the press gets hold of it. In fact, you’re one of the first people I’m telling.’

My mind started to work, sifting through possible scenarios but, if I’m honest, I guess I knew what was coming. ‘News? I’ve a feeling I’m going to need to adopt the brace position,’ I said, keeping things relaxed and sociable. ‘You’ve met someone?’

‘I can see now why people pay you money to do investigating for them. Yes, and I’m marrying him – next month over here. I want you to come. There I’ve said it – please be happy for me Neil.’

I pulled myself together. It was tough, but I’ve had plenty of practice being male and British all my life - there may have been a pause but no sharp intake of breath.

‘Jesus, Rachel, you really know how to ramp up the excitement on a Sunday night,’ I said. ‘Of course I’m happy for you – just pissed off for myself. It’s all happened a bit quickly hasn’t it? Who is he, what’s he like etc?’

Great, I’d kept it light and said something coherent and the ball was back in her court. Now I had time to concentrate on getting my emotions back under control. She was happy and excited and, as my mum often used to say to me, ‘It’s not all about you Neil.’

‘Oh, I’ve known Nick for years. He’s a big producer in the industry. We only started dating a couple of months ago and it’s all snowballed from there. I had all these plans to stay single but now all I want to do is be married to him. He’s great Neil – you’ll understand when you meet him.’

I doubted that very much. ‘Yes, I’m sure I will.’

Before I could continue she was off again. ‘You will come to the wedding won’t you Neil? It’s on the fifteenth of next month – I’ll send you and the boys the plane tickets.’

‘Give us a break Rachel,’ I protested. ‘We may have a big match or something lined up. Besides, Nick probably doesn’t want your most recent ex around while you tie the knot, especially someone as attractive as me. And, if he finds out I’m one of the first to know about your wedding to him, that’s another nail in my coffin of unpopularity so far as he’s concerned.’

‘You’re just making excuses Neil,’ Rachel said with another laugh. ‘Nick will cope, if he finds out, and when he sees you he’ll realise you’re not a threat. Seriously though, please come – you and the boys saved my life - you more than once. And you found Beverley. For all your faults, I like you. We have a history you and me. Me getting married isn’t going to change any of that. You’re still one of my best friends and I want you to come.’

So, I couldn’t say no - not that I really wanted to – I’m as curious and like a wedding as much as the next man. And, of course, as soon as Rocky and Gere found out there was a free trip to LA on offer my fate was sealed. As good as her word Rachel organised three first class air tickets along with the invitations and reservations at a five-star Beverly Hills hotel. She knew only too well we couldn’t afford an impromptu visit to the West Coast for a wedding and that her generosity removed any excuse I had to avoid being around for her nuptials. To round it off we discovered soon after we’d arrived in LA that she had organised a suit and shoe fitting at a smart Italian tailor in Beverley Hills. Gere and I were initially miffed that she obviously didn’t trust us to turn up in outfits that cut the mustard where a Hollywood A-lister occasion was concerned but Rocky had no such reservations. He pointed out that the bargains we’d found at Marks and Spencer at the Ashford Retail Outlet a few days earlier might make us stand out like sore thumbs.

‘Imagine making small talk with Julia Roberts for example. She’s wearing a top of the range Gucci number and Gere’s standing there looking like a twat in his St Michael’s pinstripe. It’s going to be embarrassing at the highest level for both Julia and Gere.’

While this was registering with Gere I said: ‘For a start Julia Roberts might not even be going and if she was she definitely wouldn’t make small talk with any of us. On the other hand, I take your point - it might be better if we blended in.’

So it was agreed. Gere had gone for a navy coloured two-piece with creases you could cut yourself on and Rocky for something similar in dazzling royal blue. I’d opted for a more loosely cut classic Italian suit in brown with tan brogues, a white Oxford button down shirt and a mocha-coloured knitted tie. I imagined that this was probably the smartest and most expensively dressed we were ever likely to be and, almost as soon as we arrived and saw some of the other guests, I was glad I’d listened to Rocky. It was also another reminder of Rachel’s thoughtfulness – but I couldn’t help hoping that Nick was ignorant of the lengths she had gone to in making sure we made it to the wedding and fitting in when we were there. He might start wondering why Rachel wanted me there so much and settled upon the obvious - and wrong reasons.

After the wedding party had processed out, the congregation disassembled row by row into the surrounding gardens. Waiters materialised holding trays carrying glasses of champagne or nibbles and the three of us found some drinks and stood around trying not to gaze too obviously at the movie stars that were scattered around in small groups within swooning distance. Even though I’d given up smoking a few months ago a sudden urge to light up sneaked up on me from nowhere and I was grateful neither of my friends were addicts or I would have been helpless to resist.

‘That was very tasteful,’ observed Rocky. ‘Lucky old Nick – me and Gere always thought you’d defy all logic and marry Rachel yourself Slick. As open goals go that was one hell of a miss!’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, my striker’s instinct failed me all right. Still, at least we all got a free trip to LA, so you could stop rubbing it in.’ There was a smile on my face but I still wanted that cigarette.

Unlike most weddings these days we didn’t have to wait around after the service for what feels like a geological period while the photographer collects enough material to justify their fee. Not that it felt like the hanging about I’ve endured at previous marriages in the UK. The weather was beautifully warm and Rocky and Gere were more diverting company than the motley bunch of distant relatives I’d been forced to socialise with at previous weddings. In just over an hour we were through with the small talk, wine and canapés and were being called to assemble for a late lunch. 

It was served in a grand marquee that had been erected on another of Nick’s perfectly manicured lawns. We were put on a circular table with one of Rachel’s sisters and her family, a few other of her Canadian relatives and Beverley Roller, Rachel’s English grandmother. The three of us had traced Beverley for Rachel when she had commissioned us to find her English relatives back when I first got to know her. Rachel had moved her from her council bungalow back in Devon out to California. Beverley had her own flat in the imposing residence Rachel called home just a few miles from where we were sitting.

The seating arrangements were a relief on many levels. We were with ordinary people the three of us could talk to – I’d been dreading keeping up my end of a conversation involving people with perfect teeth and faces I’d ever only seen staring out of glossy magazines or my television screen. Maybe I could have risen to the occasion with Penelope Cruz if she’d been present but as it was I wasn’t feeling in the sort of form to guarantee witty conversation.

Rocky behaved himself, even managing to hide his disappointment that he couldn’t drink lager with his main course and Gere didn’t waste any time engaging in small talk with the attractive blonde Rachel had placed next to him. Rocky was sitting between Gere and yours truly and Beverley was on my left. I took the opportunity to catch up with one of my favourite senior citizens.

‘This is all a bit different to Devon,’ I said to her as we were being served our first course. ‘I take it you prefer California to Dawlish?’

Her eyes twinkling at me from behind her spectacles. ‘What do you think Neil? I haven’t had as much fun since I was a girl. Rachel’s been so good to me as you know: I even have someone to clean my flat for me and if I want to go out I can call a taxi and not worry about the cost. This time a few years ago I was traipsing down town every day getting the cat food and doing other people’s bits and pieces.’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, how is William? When I last saw him he seemed to have made himself at home.’

I was referring to Beverley’s cat whom she’d insisted on bringing with her when she moved to LA.

‘Oh, he’s getting on but still fine, touch wood,’ the old lady smiled. ‘He liked you Neil you know, you should think about getting a cat yourself.’

I paused over my Orange and Dill Gravadlax. ‘As a matter of fact I have,’ I said, watching her reaction. ‘Two in fact – brothers - Santi and Dennis. I got them as kittens from a rescue home.’

Beverley approved – obviously - and cat talk took over for the next few minutes. I even fished out my mobile and showed her some snaps and videos of the gingers in my life which she cooed over excitedly. Then, like a paperclip to a magnet, she returned abruptly to the subject of Rachel. I had a growing feeling the post ceremony champagne was loosening the tongue of someone who normally didn’t drink very much.

‘I know it’s none of my business Neil, but Rachel really liked you you know.’ She paused and considered me for a moment. ‘It was a shame when you and her stopped being an item. She needed somebody normal in her life if you ask me – a lot of the yanks who come around are bloody mad I can tell you. Mostly very pleasant, mind you, just a bit off with the fairies if you know what I mean.’

I finished the mouthful of food I was chewing and grinned at her assessment of me as normal. ‘You know what it’s like Bev – life’s complicated and we’re from such different worlds. Anyway, it’s too late now - what do you think of Nick?’

Beverley didn’t look convinced by my explanation or maybe her expression was revealing her opinion of my successor. I took another mouthful of the Premier Cru Bordeaux we had been treated to as table wine and waited to find out.

‘I’ve hardly met him really – they’ve only been seeing each other for three or four months – but I don’t like him,’ she announced finally. ‘I’m sorry to have to say it but there’s something not right about him.’

I gaped at her, doing my best to look concerned rather than pleasantly surprised. I’m only human, but like everyone else, I try to give the impression I have more class than I actually possess. ‘Really?’ I said. ‘According to Rachel he treats her like a princess – kind, thoughtful with that hint of danger you women are such suckers for. He also earns more than her so he’s not doing it for the money.’

Beverley scoffed dismissively and rolled her eyes. Her expression was incredulous – like I had just mentioned that David Beckham had been awarded the Nobel Prize for Physics. She even put down her knife and wagged a finger at me.

‘Mark my words Neil it’s all an act. I’ve known enough wrong-uns in my time I can tell you. He’s a clever rich bugger I’ll grant you that but underneath all the charm he’d sell his own mother if it suited him.’

The urge to lean back and laugh like a drain was becoming almost irresistible. Nick might be Rachel’s own Mr Darcy but Beverley was immune to his charm. I’m a fully paid up subscriber to the view that most men are wankers anyway, so she was pushing at an open door where I was concerned. I wanted Rachel to be happy, of course I did, but that didn’t necessarily mean marriage had to come into the equation. Being single has a lot going for it and when you were as rich and famous as Rachel was, why rush into any kind of commitment?

‘He speaks very highly of you as well.’ I laughed. Leaving aside my natural suspicion of clean cut American millionaires I wasn’t quite ready to bet Rachel had picked another gobshite for husband numero dué, even if I wasn’t a fan of the getting married part.  Jack, her previous spouse, had been a devious bastard so she must have been on the lookout for men of his ilk.

‘So you don’t think he loves her?’ I continued.

‘No, I’m not saying that,’ she shook her head. ‘But getting married to Rachel is all about him and what he gets to gain.  From his point of view and at his age Rachel’s a very good catch – but I’d bet a pound to a penny that it doesn’t last. She’s a lovely girl really and I’m just afraid he’ll break her heart.’

‘How would he do that? She’s tougher than you think Bev. Look, I’m as cynical as you are but if he steps out of line she’s the one more likely to be the heartbreaker.’

What it boiled down to was that Beverley didn’t like Nick and whatever I said wasn’t going to change her opinion of him. The alcohol was only amplifying those feelings. It’s the way most people are – their opinions about anything are mostly informed by personal prejudice and that stops them from thinking objectively. She raised her eyebrows at me in disbelief.

‘I hope you’re right Neil,’ she said resignedly. ‘But I’m sure there’s more to him than meets the eye – underneath all the charm he’s such a cold fish.’ 

Her mind was made up, and, as I was never going to be Nick’s greatest fan I wasn’t going to argue too much. Yes, I didn’t know him from Adam, but he was a successful businessman for God’s sake so I took it as read he was never going to be California’s answer to Nelson Mandela. On one level I would have been surprised if he wasn’t a ruthless bastard who got an erection at the thought of a board meeting while, on another, he’d fulfilled Rachel’s soulmate acceptance criteria. If she didn’t think he was kosher we obviously wouldn’t be sitting at her, sorry their, wedding reception so I made a half-hearted effort to defend him. 

‘I’m not so sure Bev – Rachel’s very smart and marriage is a big step. I can’t see why she’d take the plunge unless she was absolutely positive he was the right one. What’s he actually done to make you so suspicious of him?’

I never got a chance to find out because somebody on the other side of the marquee was hitting a table with a metal object which meant it was time for the speeches.

2

As I might have foreseen the speeches were bearable, but it was a close run thing. Nick’s dad, Nick himself and the best man all seemed like old hands at public speaking and kept everything short and, if you’d had a few drinks, amusing enough. After some witty one liners, however, I was smelling a speechwriter or two and when Nick was speaking the impression was strengthened as he switched effortlessly from humour to sentimentality and back again (several times) like John F. Kennedy on a good day. According to him he’d always loved Rachel since the first time he met her. I’ll spare you the details of their first encounter in case you have a weak stomach - it was only a conversation actually but the way Nick’s heart was pounding in Rachel’s presence, or the way he described it, was only endearing if you had a world view that stopped developing when you were nine.

It was another two years, apparently, before Nick managed to convince Rachel he was husband material. I guess it would have been a shorter pursuit if she hadn’t been married for most of that time and thereafter got involved with an irresistible Englishman. Okay, he didn’t mention Jack or me but the story of his dogged pursuit of his one true love provoked many moist eyes in the marquee, including Rocky’s, which I thought was both disloyal and downright ludicrous as I knew there wasn’t a romantic bone in his body.

The default setting for my cynicism levels is high anyway, so even without Beverley’s input a few minutes ago it was doubtful Nick’s speech was ever going to cut much ice where I was concerned. But I had listened to her - so any chance he had of getting an even break with me were now long gone. While his speech was ostensibly about the beautiful bride, underneath the surface I thought it was obvious that Nick saw himself as the real hero in his epic account. The guy who, through sheer persistence and inner belief, opened Rachel’s eyes to see that he was the sexy, adorable son-of-a-gun she had to marry. Maybe men with a lot of money or overindulgent mothers get to be like that – unlike the rest of us they never get used to people saying no to them.

Viewed from another angle, and an angle I thought had a lot going for it, Nick was a