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The Charming Predator: The True Story of How I Fell in Love with and Married a Sociopathic Fraud - Softcover

Mackenzie, Lee

 
9780385687126: The Charming Predator: The True Story of How I Fell in Love with and Married a Sociopathic Fraud
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0385687125 ISBN 13: 9780385687126
Verlag: Doubleday Canada, 2017

Inhaltsangabe

She fell in love with him, they married and then she found out who he was: a conman who was determined to destroy her. 

     The instant bestselling story of Lee Mackenzie, who was a capable and confident young woman, studying broadcast journalism and honing her skills of observation and objectivity. She was also a little unworldly, the product of a small, rural Western Canadian community where doors were never locked and life was simple and direct. On a backpacking trip in the UK, she met the man who would become her husband. A man who everyone agreed was one of the most intelligent, charming people they had ever met. Easy to like, easy to believe. Easy to love. A man without mercy who shattered her emotionally, psychologically and financially.
     Decades later, Kenner Jones is at large today, having committed crimes around the world under a series of fake names and personas. He has been described—by a seasoned US immigration officer—as "the best conman I have ever encountered."
     No one got closer to Kenner Jones than Lee Mackenzie. In The Charming Predator, he is unmasked for the first time.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

LEE MACKENZIE was born in Ladysmith, on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. She spent 21 years as a broadcast journalist and news anchor: with CBC Television in Halifax, Nova Scotia; Windsor, Ontario; and Edmonton, Alberta; with CBC Radio in London, UK; and with CHEK television in Victoria, British Columbia. When she left journalism she and her husband Harv moved to Powell River, on British Columbia's Sunshine Coast. Lee is a member of the administrative staff at her local detachment of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and is a professional artist.

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CHAPTER 1

A Solitary Traveller
 
Conwy Castle, tucked into a corner of North Wales, was the first real castle I had ever seen. As I gazed at it, I let the weight of my backpack slide off my shoul­ders and drop to the ground. I was twenty-six years old and had travelled from my home in British Columbia on the west coast of Canada. Conwy, with its rustic, rounded storybook towers and turrets, was a sight right out of my childhood imaginings.
     The bus had stopped at Llandudno Junction across the bridge from Conwy. The road sign pointed to the village of Deganwy and the town of Llandudno in one direction, Colwyn Bay in the other and Conwy straight ahead. How to decide?
     On impulse I turned toward Llandudno.
     I walked right through the main part of the town, drawn by the open space and the sounds of the ocean.
     Llandudno’s graceful crescent beach was soon before me, winding gently from the Great Orme to the Little Orme at the far end of the waterfront. Orme is the Welsh word for “headland.” The Great Orme is a huge, stratified mound of granite that was a favourite haunt of the Druids. Many a windswept ceremonial group has trudged and chanted on the shoulders of the Great Orme.
     Tall, pastel-coloured hotels crowded side by side, fac­ing the stormy sea. In front of the hotels a wide, paved promenade followed the curve of the bay.
     I stood there, soaking up the sight and smell of the sea, then looked right and left on the promenade. I could see a green hut bearing the sign of the Welsh Tourist Board. I headed over.
     There was barely enough room for my pack and me both to get through the doorway. Two travellers were already there, making inquiries. When they left, I went up to the counter.
     “Hello!” said the tourist officer. “Can I be of assistance?”
     He had a pleasant voice and spoke with the musically urgent accent of the North Welsh. He was short—only about five feet five inches tall—and had dark hair that wound itself into large curls, softening his face and warm­ing his blue-grey eyes. He had a scruffy three-week-old beard. He smiled warmly, and made me feel as though I had his full attention and plenty of time.
     “Yes, please. I am looking for a place to stay.” I heard my voice as clipped and colourless by comparison with his.
     “Ah! You are an American!”
     “No, I’m Canadian,” I said, sounding slightly defensive.
     “Well, that’s even better! Would you care to sign our overseas visitors’ book?”
     “Sure.”
     I hated signing those books. Who ever looked at them, anyway? Always the same polite, unimaginative scrawls wherever you went: “Beautiful scenery”; “We loved it”; “Very nice.”
     Kenner Elias Jones reached inside his blazer jacket, took out a gold fountain pen, uncapped it and handed it to me. It was elegant and nicely balanced. I paused for a brief moment to appreciate it then finished writing and pushed the book back across the counter. My script was easy to see on the page because the pen had a wide nib and was charged with turquoise ink.
     Kenner inspected the page. “Oh, I see you’re from British Columbia! You’re an awfully long way from home, aren’t you? And what’s this? K-l-a-how-ya Till-tillicum? What the devil is that?”
     “It’s a west coast Native phrase that means ‘Greetings, friend.’ So there you go. Learn that and you’ll be able to speak a Canadian language.”
     He practised it a few times. We both laughed.
     I handed the pen back to him. “It’s marvellous,” I said. “The ink flows so easily it almost makes you want to sit and write.”
     “Thank you.” Kenner smiled, carefully recapped the pen and tucked it back into his jacket. “It’s very precious to me.”
     He recaptured my gaze and held my eyes a moment.
     Then came the questions: Where was I going? Was I travelling by myself? How long would I be there? The conversation carried on while he made arrangements for my stay.
     I asked him to book my room for a few nights. It would be nice to stay put for a while and explore. And I had found someone to talk to. Travelling alone had many rewards, but for me loneliness was something I hadn’t expected.
     I left Kenner to his other travellers after promising to come back and visit during the next few days. My budget was tight and my room was in the lowest price range. That meant getting the room key in the hotel lobby and lugging my pack up five floors by myself to a tiny room in the attic.
     I opened the door and my aching arms gladly dumped my pack in a corner. It was always this way. When I would finally stop somewhere after a day of travelling, putting that pack down knowing I wouldn’t have to pick it up again until the next day was like being let out of jail. Then I’d fall on my back on the bed and stare at the ceiling while I let the tiredness seep out of my shoulders and neck.
     It was a good pack. I had shopped carefully for it before leaving Canada. It was made of orange waterproof canvas and had a strong but light internal aluminum frame. The shoulder straps and hip belt were wide and well padded. When properly adjusted, the hip belt bore most of the pack’s weight. I had filled the pack completely and strapped a sleeping bag on the outside. When I wasn’t wearing my straw sun hat, I would tie it to the top of the pack and it would swing gently behind.
     My pack seemed to take on a personality of its own. It went everywhere with me; sat on my knee on buses and trains and beside me in restaurants. It endured being shoved, tugged and struggled with; it tolerated accusa­tions of overweight and unmanageability with a stoic calm. It knew I wouldn’t leave it behind. I laughed quietly to myself thinking about my silent companion. Earlier in the day I had stopped at a café for lunch. After being shown to a table for two, I put my pack on the chair oppo­site me, since it would be easier to pick up from there than from the floor. Feeling particularly lonely, I took off my straw hat and put it on the top of the pack. So my shape­less, orange, chapeau-adorned lunch guest stared quietly across the table at me as I ate my meal.
     Once I had settled into my poky room in Llandudno and rested a bit, I went back downstairs and outside to look around. For three days I roamed the town, strolling the promenade, breathing in the sea air and hiking up and around the Great Orme.
     Every afternoon I would visit Kenner in the tourist hut on the promenade. At three he’d get a coffee break, and we would walk over to a tea shop around the corner, drink cups of strong tea, eat toasted tea buns and talk. He was a wonderful conversationalist on a wide range of topics, and was funny, intelligent and had a wealth of information about Wales. It didn’t take long for me to find I was look­ing forward to our visits. True, finding...

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Verlag
Doubleday Canada
Erscheinungsdatum
2017
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385687125
ISBN 13 
9780385687126
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
256
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
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