Pedigree Crush with a Twist of Passion: Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-three

Phil coped after his divorce. Julie left him with everything and life continued pretty much as it had done before. He worked a little less and drank a little more. He spent a lot of money on prostitutes. One of his brothers taught him a long time ago that if you wanted sex, an easy way to get it was to pay for it. John had paid a schoolgirl five pounds and some cigarettes for a blow job. Phil was still a virgin at that point. He’d interfered with himself sometimes, and burned with shame and self disgust afterwards. He didn’t want to have sex—it was dirty—but he’d liked having money. He’d sent notes to Suzie Philips, telling her that he knew what she’d done. He’d threatened to write to her parents and regularly had her bring him money to the same clearing that she’d knelt in to blow his brother off, until the Philips family moved away and his cash cow was gone.
Phil’s regret was that he came to sex so late. Julie was his first, but he soon experienced others and found that Julie wasn’t very good at it. He’d grown up with so many hang-ups and had missed out on years of sexual gratification. He wondered what Suzie Philips was doing now. Maybe she’d made a career out of prostitution.
He couldn’t believe that his bitch of a wife blamed him for the death of their daughter. It was a terrible, tragic accident; everybody said so, especially the coroner. So as far as he was concerned she could go and fuck herself. If he was so lacking as a father, why had she left Victoria-Violet with him in the first place? Picking material for stupid bloody dresses had been far more important than their child’s wellbeing. If she wanted somebody to blame, maybe she should have looked in the mirror. And in the six months that followed, you’d have thought she was the only one who had lost a child. He was grieving too, you know. He told his mother that he doubted he’d be able to look at another duck again. Violet said that duck phobia was a terrible thing to suffer. She made a mental note to see that Chef never served duck when Philip was home.
Violet would miss Victoria, of course, but she had grandchildren coming out of her ears, what with James’ flower-power brood. Losing one was a small price to pay to have her baby back in her arms. Philip came home a lot more often now and, without that awful low-grade woman dragging him down, he was so much like his old self. He seemed happier these days, too. Violet was philosophical and reasoned that everything had worked out for the best, really.
Phil had been distraught when she left him for a different reason altogether. He was beside himself with grief. When his wife walked out, she had taken something very precious with her. A lifetime of his hard work was gone and he would never get over the loss of it. The trollop had hired somebody to break into his safe. She had stolen all of his books and papers. Violet couldn’t see why a load of old diaries mattered to him so much let her have them; it was only a bunch of books. But Philip couldn’t seem to get passed it.
‘It was my life’s work, Mother.’
‘But, darling, who’s going to care about what you did in December 1986 or March 1592? At least she didn’t get away with any money, or your house. Just let it go. Write some more little stories.’
‘Little stories! Mother, they were historical documents. There were lists of people in there who owe me money.’
‘What kind of people?’ Violet asked. ‘Who owes you money? What for?’
‘That’s not important, the fact is that there were things in that safe that can’t be replaced or replicated, and now she has them. She had no right. Violet didn’t see what all the fuss was about, she could have taken everything, and at least he still had the house.
In truth, Philip was a man waiting for the hammer to fall. He stayed at his own house as little as possible, terrified of the knock at the door. He jumped every time the gate squeaked in the wind. On the rare occasion that somebody did come to the door, he wouldn’t open it. He’d sneak upstairs and peep out of the bathroom window, but it was only ever the postman or somebody to read the electric meter, or those bastards from Barnardos canvassing for money. As the months after Julie left passed, and he was still at liberty to walk the streets a free man, he began to fear his arrest less. He saw no reason not to continue where he left off. He cleaned off his trusty cameras and spent a thousand pounds on one of those new office computers. He taught himself how to use it and passworded new documents that he could bury deep in files within the system. He liked this new way of working, it was far superior to ledgers and books. He opened spreadsheets and kept his books just as he had with his special fountain pen.
He lost a lot of business due to the theft of his evidence, but still managed to re-snare some of his old customers. In a small Lakeland town there was always somebody doing something that they shouldn’t and new business grew as it always had. The eavesdropper was back in business and the metaphorical sign above his door read OPEN.
Two years later, in 2004, the biggest scandal to hit the Woods family since James had been charged with cross-dressing prostitution broke out. With SP and James in charge, the men worked well together, SP Running the hotel side of things and James enforcing full control over the kitchen and restaurants, pretty much as he had been doing for the last ten years. That year, one of James’s favourite recipes came to bite them on the backside. It was called cooking the books. SP and James had been defrauding the tax man and creaming from the hotel profits for years. The auditor’s arrived mob-handed to undertake a thorough investigation. The books were taken, computers seized and every receipt, every wage slip and every penny in or out was scrutinised for discrepancies. SP and James were arrested and taken in handcuffs to the local station. Violet called Graham Bradson, the corrupt but trusted family solicitor. He met with Violet later the same day in her quarters. James had already been in a lot of trouble. He was looking at a long stretch. Over a family dinner, ramifications were discussed and re-discussed. Tempers frayed and some broke completely. When the summit concluded, it was decided that SP would take the fall for them both. They couldn’t both be saved and James had the most to loose.
SP covered for his brother. They had been stealing vast sums of money since they’d moved into long pants, but SP had never had any serious criminal convictions. Even so, the Prosecution Service wanted to make an example of him. The case was referred to Crown Court at Preston. He stood trial in front of twelve men strong and true, though four of the jurors were women. One of them fancied him, and at first wouldn’t opt to convict him. She couldn’t believe that the man with such a kind face could knowingly commit fraud. She said that perhaps it was all an accident and that he’d fully intended to declare all of their income, but forgot. A couple of the other jurors commented that it was unfortunate they were selected randomly and not on merit of intelect. It took a full ten minutes of negotiations around a table for the lenient juror to change her mind and pronounce him guilty along with the other eleven.
Simon Peter Woods showed no emotion when he was given a three year custodial sentence. He was away for just over a year and a half with time off for good behaviour but had a terrible time inside. His upbringing meant that he stood out from the other cons. He was bullied and victimised, beaten up on more than one occasion and his spirit was very quickly broken. Three months into his sentence he tried to hang himself and after spending three days in hospital he was transferred to a different prison. The problem was never the other offenders, it was him; he was still different from the rest. The bullying picked up where it had left off, and SP had little choice but to change. He grew a hard skin and learned to brawl. He undid years of elocution lessons and taught himself how to drop his aitches.
He grew accustomed to food seasoned with spit.

Violet told the guests that her eldest son was in Hong Kong setting up another hotel and would be home when their Asian enterprise was strong enough to fly without a Woods figurehead at the helm. The locals all knew the truth of course. Most of the town knew that the Woods boys were rotten to the core. One after another, they fell by the wayside and turned to trouble.
When SP went away, Andrew wasn’t given a choice. The family business needed him and as he was next in line to the throne, the role of office fell to him. He still managed his own business, though he passed on all of the legitimate stuff to Beth to maintain. Andrew was rich beyond measure. Nobody knew how much he had stashed away. When he began making his timepiece forgeries in his early twenties it had all been a game to him. He considered it an art to reproduce the watches and clocks from history. He had an aptitude for imitating Rolex and the modern greats. He saw his work as a compliment to the originals. He never did, and never had, cared about the money and most of it was surplice to requirements, hidden in secret offshore accounts, not to evade tax, but merely because he didn’t know where else to put it. The better he became at forging, the more he was in demand. As his name spread in the underworld, he came under the scrutiny of Maurio Rizzla, A mafia boss with a keen eye for business. It was said that he could fillet a man faster than a butcher could hang a beef.
Suddenly, Andrew wasn’t working for himself. He was forced into the Rizzla stable and became an employee of Maurio ‘Razor’ Rizzla. Rizzla now fed him commissions and timelines in which to complete them. Andrew had never been a nine to five kind of man. He’d worked when he wanted to work. He’d slept when he wanted to sleep and he’d made love to beautiful women as his loins led him. He didn’t like answering to another man. The money was vast, each commission giving him more and more money for his secret bank accounts. Rizzla paid him well, but demanded his loyalty and subservience.
Andrew got frightened and tried to quit. Rizzla had him hustled into a van, driven to a disused warehouse at the centre of his operations and beaten up by four heavies. Andrew fled under the cover of darkness to the continent, where he lived in the communes, met Beth and had his children. They came back into the country quietly, but then Andrew drew attention to himself by spending vast sums of money on the large farm with acres of land and all of his work shops, studios and outbuildings.
He wanted to live the life of an honest man. He wanted to bring his kids up well in love and beauty. He wanted to always make Beth proud of him. He had his home, he had everything he needed. His plan was to keep the farm as a working venture of dairy, meat and arable land. The west area of his property he set up as a commune for travellers passing through, they would earn their keep, for as long as they wanted to stay by working the land.
Rizzla found them. He knew Andrew would return to the happy homestead and family pile sooner or later. He’d been waiting, patiently. He reeled Andrew back into his employ. Beth was pregnant at the time so Rizzla bided his time before leaving Andrew a little reminder, something that would stay with him, just in case he ever forgot who was in charge.
One night, when Beth was tending a calfing cow, she was jumped from behind and taken to Rizzla. He pleasured himself with Beth and afterwards rang Andrew to tell him that Beth was in his bed. Beth pleaded with Andrew to help her. He could do nothing and when Beth was returned, unharmed, the following day, the Adoration for her husband had left her eyes.
Henry, Stephen Woods was born nine months later. And his parents peered at him closely looking for resemblance. He wasn’t named for the elements and carried an earthbound name. He grew up darker than any of his siblings, but Andrew didn’t hold that against him. He didn’t blame Henry for who he was or who he came from.
Beth didn’t want anymore children. She wasn’t as sweet. She loved less, complained more, and grew bitterness along with the herbs in plantpots on her windowsill. Andrew wanted to live the life of an honest farmer, but he was caught in a vice and couldn’t get out of it.
When he was called to take on the hotel as well, it was his duty to rise to that right of passage. He worked day and night to manage his own life and fulfil Rizzla’s demands as well as those of the hotel. The tax returns were filled correctly. The takings and profits had never been better, but Andrew didn’t cope well with the responsibility. He had shaved his beard, cut his hair and he wore a suit that didn’t suit. He was used to wearing sandals and shoes pinched his feet. He hated the pomp of the hotel and longed for his land. Andrew lived by a calendar in as much as he did what the season told him in relation to running his farm. He took to counting the days until his brother could reclaim his position and, until that day, he worried that he had yet another wage to deal with. Andrew knew only too well that money is the route of all evil, but as hard as he tried to denounce it and live a simple existence, he just made more. It was his personal curse.
Time passed in the Woods Empire. Ten years had gone since Julie and Philip had split up. Violet had grown closer to Ros and relied on her more than ever to keep her grounded to reality. SP still stole and lined his pockets from the business. James still got into fights, beat his wife and wore women’s clothes, seeking his sexual deviance wherever he could. Andrew still forged. John’s gambling was out of control. And Philip blackmailed and became a rich man on the back of other people’s misery.

Donald died quietly while tending his garden. He would have liked it like that. The gardeners had all knocked off for the day and he was left digging out a few bits of veg to make up a hamper for the Legion raffle that night. It came on suddenly and he leaned on his spade waiting for the twinge to pass. And then he was gone, quick as that, without much pain, without anyone knowing, without any fuss. Just the way he would have wanted it. Dinner passed without Donald attending and Violet pursed her lips in annoyance. She had the waiter transfer her dinner from the table to a tray and she ate it on her knee. Donald’s meal was covered and put in the kitchenette oven to keep warm. After eating she picked up a paperback and read for a while. It was only when the shadows had lengthened and she’d had to turn on the reading lamp that she realised the time. Donald should have been getting ready for his lodge. The feeling of foreboding settled around her from the top of her head first. It swathed over her shoulders and down her body. Something was wrong. Donald was never late for the lodge and he wouldn’t dream of going without showering his garden mud away first. A fastidious man, he went to the weekly meetings in a slacks and a blazer, with a small bowtie cinched tight at his neck. She called down to Ros. She was always her first point of contact in any dilemma or crises. Ros sighed deeply and dragged herself from the sofa. She had been watching the concluding part of a crime drama on TV and deeply resented that she wouldn’t be allowed to see the ending. She had completely wasted her time making sure that she was cleared of her duties and ready to watch the first two episodes because now she was going to miss the last part. She might as well have not bothered.
Wearily she assured Violet that Donald wouldn’t be far. Yes, she’d go and find him, right away. She had to dress, as she was just out of the bath and had settled for the night in her pyjamas. Poor Donald, she didn’t blame him sloping off for a bit of clandestine time alone. He wasn’t in the reception or lounge areas of the hotel. She stopped the porters and asked them to search for Donald outside.
The doctor who signed Donald’s death warrant estimated that he’d been dead between three and four hours. The gammon had dried up in the oven.
Violet was lost without him. He had been there for the majority of her life. He kept her grounded and reined in her more colourful ideas. He had been her stake in the ground, her anchor that kept her fancies earthbound. After his death, she leaned heavily on Ros to look after her.