Prime Deception (11 page)

‘Charles!’ Elaine exclaimed, anger returning to her voice.

‘Yes dear?’ he asked innocently, his mind snapping back to reality.

‘You can’t even
pretend
to listen to me!’

‘I was, I am … I’m just so very tired.’

‘Then go and rest. We can discuss the dining room more tomorrow.’

‘Indeed.’ Charles kissed his wife gently on her forehead wondering just how much more discussion the dining room’s change of shade warranted.

Elaine stood in what she felt was a triumph in interior design. She should have been beaming with pride, but her husband’s indifference had soured her mood. When they spoke, she felt as though he were looking through her, not caring for what she said. There had been a time when he held onto her every word for dear life, not wanting to miss a single sentence which she breathed life in to. But for many years Elaine had felt him drawing away from her, growing increasingly attached to his job and his career. She understood the price a woman had to pay for supporting a great man; her mother had taught her that her own needs, wants and desires would come second to his.

What disturbed Elaine Lloyd most was that she sensed that she was now losing her husband. Not only did he fail to listen, but he appeared unmoved by her angry outbursts. She could not risk losing Charles. Being his wife defined her. Elaine wanted to cry but could not. Her latest botox therapy had welded her face to the point where it was almost impossible to convey emotion. Elaine looked at her hands, beautifully manicured, and felt her hair, styled to perfection, and wondered what more she could do to make her husband notice her? She let her hand fall to her stomach which felt concave and useless, for she knew that the thing which would bind Charles to her forever, she could never possess. Even the house and all her social engagements struggled to fill the gap left by her own infertility. If Charles left, the emptiness would be unbearable.

The following morning, Elaine awoke earlier than usual in an attempt to surprise her husband with breakfast before he left for work. Normally, she would remain in the comfort of her bed and call out her goodbyes, or sometimes she would be so lost to sleep that she wouldn’t even stir when he left for the day. But Elaine felt that she needed to endear herself further to Charles. He was becoming distant and it was up to her to rectify that. Elaine prided herself on her ability to flawlessly play the dutiful housewife, but clearly her role had been below par for her husband to be so despondent.

Before the sun had even had chance to creep over the horizon, Elaine was up, dressed, with lips and cheeks coloured rouge, and in her kitchen preparing an omelette.

The smell of the cooking breakfast danced up the stairs and laced the air around a dozing Charles. He stirred and inhaled, confused by the unusual fragrance. As alluring as the scent was, his hunger refused to be roused, instead replaced by a constant feeling of sickness. Lorna had once again haunted his dreams that night, leaving him with nothing but his own guilt for company. Food was the last thing he wanted.

Elaine heard the steady footsteps of her husband descending the staircase and so she braced herself for his entrance, quickly adjusting her hair after a rogue strand had fallen loose.

‘Good morning dear,’ she exclaimed as he opened the door, a broad smile plastered across her face. Charles squinted at her, a little taken aback by her Stepford wifes routine.

‘Morning,’ he answered coolly, still in the process of affixing his cufflinks.

‘Here, let me help with those,’ Elaine hurried over.

‘No, its fine.’ Charles withdrew his wrists from her grasp, hugging his hands into himself protectively. He did not wish to be touched. His cheek still felt the sensation of Lorna’s ghostly last kiss; he could not bear further physical contact from anyone.

‘Okay,’ Elaine tried to appear unmoved by his unusual hostility. ‘Well, you just sit down and I’ll bring your breakfast over. I’ve cooked your favourite – ham omelette.’

‘Just juice please,’ Charles said as he sat down and continued to fiddle with his cufflinks.

‘But I’ve made you breakfast!’ Elaine said indignantly, the façade of the perfect wife beginning to fall away.

‘Thank you but I’m not hungry.’

Charles was in no mood to deal with his wife. He wished she had just remained in her bed and he could have slipped away without a further altercation between them. Today Laurie would be stepping into Lorna’s shoes and he needed to remain focused. The thought of seeing Laurie filled him with both excitement and dread which left him feeling an overwhelming sense of nausea.

‘I go up early especially to make you breakfast!’ Elaine felt the blood rush to her cheeks as her anger began to take hold.

‘And I’m grateful, but you shouldn’t have bothered. I always eat at the office,’ Charles explained calmly.

Elaine stood over the now-cooked omelette and raised a hand to her temple. Her temper, she knew, was not the only fly in the ointment of her marriage but it was still an issue. If she flew into a rage now, she risked pushing Charles even further away.

‘You must sit on your feelings and concentrate on addressing his,’ her mother had advised her many years ago when she was a blushing bride. ‘His burdens become yours; it is the price we must pay for marrying men destined for greatness.’

‘Yes, mother.’ As a young woman, Elaine had been naïve as to how costly that price would be. Whatever dreams she had harboured as a girl had dissolved away until she was left an aging woman, lonely in a house too grand for its two occupants, estranged even from the man whom she had devoted her life to.

‘I’m sorry darling, I should have thought.’ Elaine smiled at her husband but her eyes remained sorrowful. ‘What juice would you like, orange or grapefruit?’

‘Orange please.’

Charles watched his wife reach into the refrigerator and retrieve the carton of juice. Her movements appeared sluggish and heavy, weighed down by her own sadness. There was a time when he would try to sympathise and understand what was wrong, but despite his efforts he had never been able to traverse the dark depths of Elaine’s mind. He had found that it was best to let her remove herself from her own melancholy than to intervene. Usually, when she appeared disillusioned, he would arrange for the delivery of flowers, and her fog of sadness would immediately lift as she was so easily appeased by the gesture of foliage.

‘I’m lucky to have such a wonderful wife.’ He paid Elaine the compliment as she laid down his glass of juice even though he didn’t truly mean it. Just like Simon in his office, she immediately brightened and mentally clung to the little nugget of praise.

‘It is I who is the lucky one.’ Elaine’s smile was now genuine as she leant and laid a kiss upon her husband’s forehead, slightly staining his skin to the colour of her lips.

‘Work is, as ever, horrifically busy, so I apologise if I can appear distracted at times.’

‘You don’t need to make excuses to me.’ Elaine smiled at her husband as he drained his glass of juice and then rose to his feet.

‘I’d best be off,’ Charles declared, still feeling awkward in this foreign morning routine.

‘Of course, you have a country to run,’ Elaine beamed proudly.

The Bentley entered the street with the finesse and stealth of a prowling feline. Charles was soon within it, being escorted into the capital city. Elaine watched the vehicle leave from behind her handmade silk curtains. She knew that, as perfect as her home was, it may as well have been made of cards because it could all so easily come tumbling to the ground all around her.

Chapter Six

Not all questions have answers

Simon Pruit placed down the documents which he had been cradling in his arms like a baby and beamed with pride. Less than a week had expired since the Deputy Prime Minister personally assigned him the task, and here he was, days before the deadline, delivering the results. Simon felt exhilarated by his own success.

He regarded the neat pile of papers, now sat upon the desk which belonged to Charles Lloyd, and allowed his mind to briefly fantasise about how his hard work could ultimately benefit him. Simon scanned the dated office, mentally noting the changes he would make if his dreams managed to somehow come true and one day he was settling himself into the seat of power.

Time was not on Simon Pruit’s side. He was already on the wrong side of thirty and far from settling down in either his private or professional life. In the mornings, he would notice how his hairline had begun to recede, and the hair that remained was thinning rapidly. Lines had appeared beneath his eyes which deepened day by day. Simon did not embrace these signs of aging, going to great lengths to hide them. His ritual every Saturday morning was to browse the local supermarket and surreptitiously purchase male hair dye in order to disguise the shades of grey which had started to flash beneath his naturally dark hair colour.

To Simon, the whole world felt youth obsessed and it was a race in which he was no longer eligible to enter. His job was good, but not great. At his age, social expectations meant that he should either be married with children in tow, or at least divorced, or almost at the pinnacle of his career. Simon Pruit was none of these. His infrequent rendezvous with rent boys dismissed the notion of a family, and his professional life seemed to have stalled.

But Simon trusted Charles Lloyd. He found the current Deputy Prime Minister to be enigmatic and sincere. It was these qualities which drew people to him and helped him retain his position amongst the party. Simon knew that if he aligned himself to Charles, he was protecting his own future. Behind his back, people mocked his loyalty, cruelly labelling him as ‘Charles’ spaniel.’ Simon was aware of the malicious comments but ignored them for they did not matter. He respected Charles and enjoyed working for him. His loyalty would not waver.

Simon cast one last cursory eye over the documents he had just bought in. The continuing focus on youth seemed to taunt him, yet Simon was certain of the Deputy Prime Minister’s true intentions for the investigation. Simon Pruit was many things, but he was no idiot. His power of perception only sharpened with age, and whilst Lorna Thomas had not been to his personal taste, there was no denying her beauty. The colour had flushed to Charles’ cheeks ever so slightly when Simon had mentioned her name, confirming what the loyal aide had long suspected. Simon recognised the shame of sexual deviancy when he saw it, as it was a look he had been forced to wear for many years.

Satisfied that his documents were in decent order, Simon left the office, giving a polite nod to Faye as he left, not noticing the petite blonde who was typing away on the computer beside her.

When Charles returned to his office later that day he was careful not to make eye contact with Laurie. He could make her out, just at the edge of his peripheral vision, working diligently, but he chose not to address her for fear of drawing unwanted attention to her. He had strictly instructed Laurie to talk to as few people as possible; ideally she would liaise only with himself and Faye.

‘Oh sir, Mr. Pruit left some documents in your office for you,’ Faye called after Charles. His quickened step past her work station had almost completely removed her opportunity to relay messages to him.

‘Right, great.’ Charles did not turn as he responded but was surprised by Simon’s efficiency. He had clearly underestimated just how determined the man could be.

The pile of documents loomed large on his desk, cutting a foreboding shadow across his floor. Charles sat down behind them and lifted the first half of the pile towards him. The papers were heavy with their morbid knowledge. Simon was renowned for being meticulously organised and he had not disappointed; the police reports were arranged alphabetically, making it easy for Charles to locate the file for Lorna.

As his fingers picked through the pile of paper, Charles felt his heart become weighted. There were so many names, so many methods of self-elimination:

John Callows, 22, overdose

Sarah Danbridge, 24, slashing of the radial and ulnar arteries

Dan Eastham, 23, asphyxiation

When did the youth of his nation become so disenchanted? Charles couldn’t help but feel as though he had failed the people whose final moments his eyes now scanned over. To feel so utterly desperate that the only release was to take your own life, the thought made Charles sick to his stomach. And to attach that mentality to Lorna was even worse. Lorna – who entered a room and bought the sunlight with her. To imagine such a self-destructive darkness within her was unbearable.

Towards the bottom of the pile, Charles found Lorna’s file.

Lorna Celia Thomas, 22

An officer with the Kent Police Constabulary had filed the report. When the emergency services arrived on the scene, Lorna was already dead, having crashed her car straight into a tree. She was declared dead on the scene and a preliminary examination of her car ruled out a malfunction of the vehicle, yet the full report from this was missing.

Charles read and re-read the report until his eyes stung, each time failing to absorb the facts. The coroner predicated that from the extent of the damage, Lorna had been travelling at least 60 miles per hour when her car collided head on with the great oak tree. Her small body had smashed against the steering wheel with such force that it had entered and punctured both her lungs instantly, as her head smacked against the dashboard and then ricocheted back, snapping her neck and disabling all her motor skills. Her death had been instant, and by all accounts, deliberate.

The words were there but Charles did not want to believe them. Lorna was his angel. Why would someone so wonderful and so precious want to cease to exist? And the thought which furthered his despair was that, possibly, his own actions had caused her to turn to such desperate measures. Had the pain of their affair ending made her want to end her life?

The report sat on Charles’ desk, refusing to change. It pained Charles how the description of events was so clinical. Lorna had been a person, yet here she was referred to as a thing, in the same way a child would recall the internal organs of a frog they had just dissected in a science lab. Charles was far too close to the case to be able to decipher the report clearly; his last ounce of common sense told him that. He needed someone else to review the report, someone more knowledgeable than him about the police and the systems they used.