The Concealers

  Janet Pywell

  The Concealers

  A Ronda George Thriller - Book 1

  First published by Kingsdown Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Janet Pywell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Janet Pywell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Janet Pywell has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  Castle Calder bears no relation to any existing castle and any similarities are purely coincidental.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  In memory of Ronda Evett.

  Not a kickboxer or ‘Masterchef’ but a beautiful and interesting friend who was great company. We shared lovely meals and we laughed lots. Happy memories.

  Grateful thanks to Julia Gibbs, Tommy Smith and Frankie Smith from the Whitstable Kickboxing Sports Club and Amanda for all her love and support.

  Foreword

  The Concealers

  Book 1

  A Ronda George Thriller

  Talented kickboxer and Masterchef turns detective.

  Betrayed, bankrupt and broken – Can Ronda get back in the game?

  After her ex-boyfriend’s stolen her savings and confidence, Ronda George is desperate to get back in the game. When she’s employed to cater for a private 50th birthday party at a Castle in Scotland, she also agrees to be the ‘eyes and ears’ for Inspector Joachin García Abascal from Europol.

  But the family have their secrets and are concealing truths involving an unsolved murder and a stolen rare blue diamond.

  What should be a simple catering job turns into a nightmare as enemies are bent on revenge. Ronda must use all the skills from her military career to stay alive.

  The Concealers is the first book in the Ronda George series of thrillers which can be read and enjoyed in any order, although it’s exciting to watch Ronda’s personal development with each book in the series and it’s preferable to read them in sequence.

  Fans of female sleuths and aficionados of Lucy Foley, Catherine Cooper, Allie Reynolds, Shari Lapena, Riley Sager and Lisa Jewell.

  Chapter 1

  “A fault is fostered by concealment.”

  Virgil

  Herr Schiltz looks like my late father.

  Unfortunately, we didn’t get on, especially after he emotionally blackmailed me into a career at Sandhurst. Officer material, he called me. It wasn’t what I wanted, not Sandhurst nor the army. But after my mother died and I’d grown out of boarding school, I didn’t have the fight left in me to argue with Brigadier Charles George.

  Sadly, in the end it wasn’t what he wanted either – nothing was ever prestigious enough, not even when I rose to the rank of captain.

  Like my late father, Herr Schiltz is late-sixties maybe seventy with severely combed-back thin, white hair and a pencil moustache that’s reminiscent of a sixties screen idol. Only there’s something cold in his eyes, and I suspect that Herr Schiltz, as was my father, is very used to getting his own way.

  He points at a single uncomfortable chair opposite his desk in his flashy modern, glass and chrome London office that has about as much soul as my dead father with its lemon-scented air freshener.

  ‘Sit down, Ronda.’

  He doesn’t smile, and suddenly, I’m reminded of that day in my father’s study, when I told him I wanted to become a world-class chef. His face had clouded over and his eyes were thunderous and angry.

  ‘I haven’t invested in you to work in a blasted kitchen.’

  ‘I’d be a Michelin chef,’ I argued.

  ‘You’re going to Sandhurst – that’s the end of it. Now, get out!’

  Herr Schiltz checks through the papers on his desk, and when he looks up, I straighten my back.

  ‘Well, Ronda George, you come highly recommend.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It says here that you left the British army in 2017 and you went on to win Masterchef – a television programme in the United Kingdom – two years ago.’ He speaks perfect English without a trace of a German accent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘I’ve been catering for private functions: parties, banquettes, private dining at specific venues and events—’

  ‘Including William and Kate?’

  ‘I have cooked for several members of the royal family – in a private capacity.’

  ‘I’d imagine they’re quite fussy?’

  ‘I don’t speak about my clients, but I do have permission to list them.’

  ‘Good. Good. I need total discretion.’ He stares at me, taking in my short, spiky, black hair and my deep-set green eyes – my mother’s legacy.

  I pull at the hem of my navy Chanel suit I bought especially for these type of interviews then grip my shaking fingers together in my lap. Sandhurst had promised me ‘Confidence that lasts a lifetime’; they didn’t lie but they couldn’t foresee what would happen.

  ‘I want you for the whole weekend.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ my voice croaks.

  ‘Did Paula give you the date?’

  ‘Your secretary said it would be in a few weeks, around mid-August.’

  ‘You can arrive ahead of the party. There will be ten of us – all adults thankfully no children – arriving Friday evening until Sunday night. You can leave on Monday morning. There will be housekeepers and staff in the kitchen who will help you, and a sommelier – you can work with them all. They’re used to fine-dining catering so you won’t have any problems. My chauffeur Jim will also be there.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘I’ll fly you up there.’

  ‘What? I assumed you wanted me here in—’

  ‘London?’ He laughs. ‘Heavens, no. It’s a special occasion. Scotland. It’s my wife’s fiftieth birthday, and I’m flying the family and some friends up there as a surprise – Calder Castle. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Didn’t Paula tell you?’

  ‘I haven’t met Paula, but we did speak on the phone.’

  Paula had been as aloof and unfriendly as Herr Schiltz.

  ‘Can you make a birthday cake?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She likes vanilla sponge.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Make an effort – it has to be special – not too big or expensive but something to do with golf,’ he adds vaguely.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You can liaise with Paula. She will see to everything.’

  I don’t reply. I’m busy wondering who will look after Molly for the weekend. It�
��s not easy to find someone to look after a boisterous and lively two-year-old—

  ‘Is there a problem, Ronda?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘It’s fine.’

  I’ll worry about Molly later. This job is too good to turn down, and I need the money – much more than anyone could imagine.

  ‘Right.’ Herr Schiltz stands up. ‘I want you to submit a variety of menus for the entire weekend, including some vegetarian and vegan options. I suppose some of the family will have gone on those sorts of diets by now, and once I sign off on them, you can order the food in advance. Liaise with the housekeeper up there, she will organise everything you need and if you’re stuck, ask Paula.’

  I nod my head. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to prepare?’

  ‘Fish, salmon, source everything locally – Scottish, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Right, you can go now. I have another appointment.’ Herr Schiltz stands up, but he doesn’t look at me. He consults his diary that lies open on the glass table, runs his finger down the page and taps his finger against a name then reaches for his phone.

  He looks up surprised I’m still seated.

  I get to my feet and glance around the double-aspect office with views of Canary Wharf below then I take a deep breath to control my shaking voice.

  ‘Herr Schiltz, what about my remuneration for the weekend?’

  He frowns, and his mouth with his pencil moustache turns down at the corner.

  ‘You’ll be well-paid, and if our guests are pleased, there’s also a bonus for you.’

  ‘How much—’

  He holds up his hand. ‘I don’t discuss money. It’s vulgar. Speak to my secretary.’

  Then like I did fifteen years ago leaving my father’s study, I tiptoe from his office wondering if I’m doing the right thing but realising that I have no choice.

  On this occasion, I desperately need the money.

  * * *

  I lead with my left foot, throwing punches with my dominant right hand. Then I follow this with more robust energy with my non-dominant hand and lean forward in a boxing stance punching faster and faster until I’m breathless and the sweat drips from my forehead.

  I see James’s face and his smiling blue eyes.

  I thump the bag again and hit him between the eyes.

  I do ten side kick squats then I place my legs either side of the punch bag and catch my breath before doing a sit-up and punching the bag ten more times.

  I’m panting hard. Thumping, timed, rhythmic, repeating, smacking, hitting, swearing in my head at James – my ex.

  ‘Working on your core strength?’ Tina asks.

  ‘Pain,’ I grunt. ‘Inflicting pain.’

  ‘James again?’

  ‘Yep.’ I pause, panting and gasping, and reach for my water bottle.

  ‘Taking out your frustration?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Tina, my best friend, is wearing a rainbow T-shirt and shorts that show off her slender legs. She grins at me and hides behind the punchbag.

  ‘Want to practise with me?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ I grin and rise to my feet, adjusting my red tank top and long sweat pants. ‘Uppercut?’ I smile, rotating my torso and bringing my fist upward striking the punch bag, then again and again. Kickboxing is the best sport for me; it combines honing my physical strength with my current mental desire for inflicting pain.

  ‘Need to talk?’ Tina holds the punch bag unflinching.

  I bring my fists to my face in a fighting stance and shift my weight to my right foot. I bring my left knee up to my chest, foot flexed, and my heel close to my gluteus then I kick out my left foot – straight from the hip – leading with the heel, inches from Tina’s chest then I bring my foot to the floor and retain my fighting stance.

  ‘This kickboxing is thirsty work,’ Tina says, turning away and grabbing her sweatshirt. ‘Come on. I’ll buy you a gin. You look like you need one.’

  * * *

  ‘Could you do me a huge favour, Tina? Say you’ll look after Molly. It’s only for a long weekend. You know she adores you.’ She places two gin and tonics on the pub table where I’m sitting in the corner cooling down near the open windows. Outside a group of businessmen have loosened the buttons on their shirts. Their jackets are draped over the pub benches.

  She glances through the open sash window where buckets of colourful petunias are in flower. ‘All the tables are full outside; you were lucky to get this one.’

  ‘Are you avoiding my question?’ I ask. ‘Please, Tina. There isn’t anyone else I can ask.’

  ‘That’s because she’s spoilt and greedy.’

  ‘How dare you say that. She’s affectionate and loving.’

  I suppress a lasting memory of Tina and Molly, my labradoodle, play-wrestling on the sofa last week. She covered Tina in great big wet sloppy licks and Tina said hated it when Molly licked her, but I suspect she secretly loved the attention.

  ‘Well, she’s that too but—’

  ‘Oh, Tina, come on. You’re my best friend.’

  ‘I’m your only friend.’

  ‘Okay, that’s probably true.’

  ‘You could ask James?’ Tina suggests with a sly smile.

  ‘You know I’m never speaking to him again, besides it’s his fault that I’m in this mess anyway.’

  ‘I thought you loved him—’

  ‘I did, but I never thought he’d—’

  I break off, unable to finish the sentence. I’m not sure if I’m angry with him or myself. Why did I always end up in such a mess?

  ‘Look, Ronda. I told you not to give him thirty thousand pounds—’

  I hold up the palm of my hand. ‘I know, but it’s too late now, Tina. Look, I … I need the money. Oh God, what a mess, I’m bankrupt.’

  ‘Will you get any of it back?’

  ‘He said he was looking for a job, but now he’s disappeared. He’s a liar. That’s why I can’t turn down Herr Schiltz.’

  ‘Alright, I’ll take Molly.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I pause. ‘I hope I can do it, Tina. I haven’t cooked professionally for months.’

  ‘It’s like riding a bicycle.’ Tina grins.

  ‘He’s a brute.’

  ‘A brute?’ Tina grins and imitates a bad Scottish accent. ‘Are you being a wee bit dramatic, lassie?’

  ‘He’s just like my dad.’

  ‘Ah, so is that what got you so fired up in the gym? You were even angrier today than normal.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Well, that’s not a good sign.’

  I gaze at Tina. She has known me since we were both six, and we went to primary school together. Now, at thirty-three, she looks younger than me, slimmer than me, and prettier than me. Tina is the opposite of me in every single way; her clothes and hair are neat. She’s organised and calm. She attends yoga and meditation classes and holds down a respectable job as a criminal lawyer with a prestigious London law firm.

  ‘You could try counselling?’ she suggests.

  ‘That’s not an option,’ I say, dismissively. ‘Would you believe, Herr Schiltz even has the same pencil moustache,’ I grumble.

  ‘Gosh, how awful.’ Tina grins; unlike my flawed face that shows frown lines on my forehead and crow’s feet at the corner of my eyes, her skin is perfect. She has a heart-shaped face, a dimpled chin and long blonde hair. ‘It’s no wonder you were punching the bag like a maniac on the loose.’

  ‘I like to think I have more style than that.’ I pause, and a shiver runs down my spine. ‘Herr Schiltz did say I came highly recommended.’

  ‘Well of course you do, Ronda. You’re famous. Think of all the people you’ve cooked for since you won that Bake-Off programme,’ she teases.

  ‘Masterchef – it was Masterchef – and I’m not famous, besides I’ve worked bloody hard to build my clientele.’

  ‘I hardly saw you for two years,’ Tina complains. ‘You were alw
ays hobnobbing with royalty; it was either Charles or Camilla, or the Beckhams when they’re in London, or that singer—’

  ‘Sam Smith.’

  ‘Look,’ Tina says, leaning forward. ‘It was a blip. You lost your confidence, that’s all. It was temporary.’

  ‘I was a wreck. I ruined the food and burnt half of it, and I still don’t know if I can—’

  ‘Of course, you can. You’ll be fine.’

  I shake my head. ‘After seeing his office—’

  ‘You won’t be cooking in his office. You’re going to Scotland.’

  ‘He’s rented a castle for the weekend – Castle Calder. There’s a whole programme of events – including a shooting morning – that his secretary sent to me, and I have to plan the meals for ten guests for the entire weekend.’ I nod at my gym bag on the floor not daring to bring out the list of requirements.

  ‘Who’s he shooting?’ Tina laughs.

  ‘Grouse – I think it’s the season, or deer or rabbits? I don’t know, Tina. I wish I didn’t have to go. His secretary is young and miserable. It wouldn’t surprise me if she had steel caps on her shoes and on top of that when I called the housekeeper, she sounded dour and resentful.’ I drain my glass.

  ‘And you haven’t even arrived yet.’ Tina laughs. ‘This will be so exciting, and it will do you good to get away.’

  Tina has always propped me up, made me laugh. We egg each other on, try and keep upbeat and positive. It has kept us going through the traumas of our lives: school, exams, university, boyfriends, family and jobs as well as a multitude of heartaches and breakups – although they’ve mostly been mine as a result of me not choosing wisely: Wrong career – Sandhurst. Wrong employer – British Army. Wrong boyfriend – James.

  ‘When do you go?’ Tina breaks my thoughtful spell.

  ‘Next weekend. The 12th of August.’

  ‘That’s short notice for his wife’s fiftieth birthday. Is it his second wife?’