Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,5,560635-my_darling.html
I put some music on to relax us. Fingal’s Cave by Mendelssohn.
You take a sip of your drink. I haven’t touched mine yet.
‘Delicious. What’s in it?’
‘My secret recipe with cherry liqueur.’
Do you really think I will tell you the truth? Rohypnol. My favourite drug.
‘So where’s Tomas?’ you ask.
Asking for Tomas already. Two-timing whore.
‘Don’t you know?’ I ask.
You frown and shake your head. ‘Why would I?’ you ask.
Clever posturing, you superficial bitch. When you are sleeping with a man, you usually know where he is.
I smile a wry smile. ‘He’s just away overnight. He sometimes stays overnight in London when he has to entertain clients.’
Another frown. ‘I thought you said he was away this week travelling.’
‘I probably thought that when I said it. His plans change all the time.’ I pause and hand you the peanuts. ‘Do have a nibble.’
You take a handful. You continue to sip your drink. I go to the bar and produce a whole jug of Cherry Bomb. I smile at you and top you up.
‘Tell me, have you had many different partners?’ I ask.
Your body stiffens as if you are affronted by my question. Come on, drink up bitch. Relax.
You shake your head. ‘Not really. One or two. The main ones have been my husband Colin, and now Alastair.’ There is a pause. ‘What about you?’
‘Tomas is my only love. You know the Barry White song? The first. The last. My everything. That’s him for me.’
I top up your glass again.
‘How long have you owned your dental practice?’ I ask.
You don’t reply. Your eyes are staring and confused. Your mind is about to go. Your body slumps across the sofa, head back, arms wide. Your breathing is shallow. Chest hardly moving. I hope I haven’t overdone it. But no, I can’t have. I calculated the dose so carefully. I lean over you. I feel the exhalation of your breath on my cheek. Relief floods through me.
I put on the latex gloves from my pocket. With trembling hands I begin my task, fetching the wrench I bought yesterday from beneath the sink.
36
Emma
I wake up, unsure for a second where I am. I see yellow and cream curtains. In my own bedroom. Must be. A loud buzzing sound. But it isn’t buzzing, it’s purring. Casper is lying on top of me. My mouth tastes dry. As if a hamster has died in it. My tongue is like sandpaper. I roll over in bed and disturb the cat. He grumbles with a loud meow. As I roll, clothes pull against my skin and I realise I’m still wearing my velvet dress. I wriggle my toes. I’ve gone to bed in my black suede boots.
Oh my God. What has happened? Where have I been? Have I been robbed? Where is my phone? Where is my jewellery? I check my bedside table; my phone, my favourite gold jewellery, all there. Then I remember. Drinking Cherry Bomb. Not being able to think. Not being able to speak. I feel really, really guilty for having too much to drink. Not a very sensible way for a professional career woman to behave. Another reason for Jade to hate me. Thinking I have no self-restraint.
Drinking so much my memory has gone? Is there something wrong with me? I need to see my GP.
Memories
I had just returned from my A level biology field trip to Anglesey, tired after days of counting crabs and square metres of seaweed. Longing for a hot bath and an early night. Mother was sitting in the kitchen staring into the air in front of her, tears streaming down her face.
I held her against me. But she yelped and pulled away, rubbing her lower right arm.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just my arm’s a bit sore.’
‘Let me see.’
‘No, no,’ she said, walking towards the sink, reaching for some kitchen roll to dry her tears. ‘It’s nothing to fuss about. Let me put the kettle on and get you some supper.’
She always said it was nothing when he hit her. When he did ‘something’, what would that look like? I laid the table and peeled the potatoes, shuddering inside. I was seventeen. I needed to take responsibility for my mother. Not just to be subservient to my father and help her peel potatoes. I needed to do something real.
37
Jade
‘Shall we have a quick drink together before I set off for book group, darling?’ I say with a smile.
‘That would be nice.’
‘I’ll get us a sloe gin with ice.’
We sit in the kitchen, by the window, looking out onto the garden. It is early spring, the daffodils starting to brighten the world with their sun-ray heads. I hand you your sloe gin mixed with Rohypnol. A high enough dose. No need to take any risks.
‘Cheers.’ We clink glasses. ‘Here’s to our new life in Henley.’
We sit in silence for a while.
Then, ‘It’s a bit cold in here.’
‘The boiler needs servicing. A guy is coming tomorrow. I switched it off.’
‘Well, being cold is a lot less uncomfortable than toothache. I’m so pleased to have finished all that dental work,’ you say.
I know your pain was never there. I know you made it up so that you could go to the surgery and take her in your arms. Emma, the plastic blonde with a stereotypical personality. The woman who has killed you.
‘Her surgery is very nice. It has a fish tank. I like the guppy best,’ you mumble as your body begins to slump. Your head lolls. Your torso leans backwards. You are out for the count.
I fetch the plastic box with all my equipment from the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink and place it on the table. The latex gloves. The Tyvek suit. Plastic sheet. Masking tape. Sellotape. Cling film. Tape measure. Pipette. Wrench.
This is going to be difficult. I step into the Tyvek suit and put on the latex gloves. Hand trembling I pick up the wrench, taking care to make sure I’m holding the right end. I take a deep breath, pull my arm back as I have practised, and swing it at the back of your head. A gash. A small gash. I have not hit you hard enough. I pull my arm back further and, with all the strength I can muster, I swing again. This time your skull cracks. Blood pools in the wound. Your chest falls still. An almost imperceptible stiffness. And I know you have gone.
I take a photograph of the blood splatter and make notes. Measure the distances. I wipe the blood with bleach and toilet paper and flush the tissues away down the lavatory. Slowly, carefully, I lift you from the chair and place you face down on the plastic sheet. You are heavy. My back hurts. I straighten your arms and place them by your side. Heart thumping, knowing I need to act quickly, I wrap you in the plastic sheet and leave you on the cold stone kitchen floor. The heating has been off all day. Lying on the floor wrapped in plastic will keep your body cool. The low temperature will disguise your time of death. Time of death can be hard to ascertain. Real life is not like Silent Witness.
I take the pipette and fill it with blood from your wound. Now I need to keep the wound fresh. I cover it with cling film and Sellotape. I hide the wrench, wrapped in latex, beneath the kitchen plinth, in the corner by the bin. I will deal with it later. I place the blood-filled pipette in a plastic bag in the fridge.
Job done for now. I wrap my suit and gloves in a plastic shopping bag, stuff them in my handbag, and grab my jacket and car keys.
I drive off, looking at the time. Just right. I sigh with relief. My heart begins to slow. Everything is in order. I stop the car and dump the suit and gloves wrapped tightly in a Waitrose bag at the local roadside recycling bin. Then I continue on my way to book group. Time for my life to move on.
38
Emma
The Angel on the Bridge; my favourite pub. Warm and cosy. Wood-panelled and characterful. Andrea arrives at the same time as me, for our Wednesday night ritual, our early evening drink. She is looking as good as ever, with her shiny auburn hair. Wearing her black leather coat and signature pale-pink lipstick.
We find our table in
the corner by the window, the one we always take if we can. I go to the bar to get the drinks. Gin and tonic for Andrea. Bombay Sapphire and Fever-Tree, of course. Nothing but the best for my glamorous receptionist. A small glass of white wine for me.
‘I’ve got an assignation after this. I’m meeting someone at eight-ish,’ Andrea says, voice slightly breathless.
‘An internet date?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘And if the photograph is accurate he looks pretty fit.’
And for a second I envy her. When I’m starting a new relationship I always enjoy the swiping and tasting stage.
39
Jade
Book group is such a bore. But I need an alibi, so I have to put up with it. After tonight I won’t need to come any more. The book group takes place at a different member’s house each month. The person who hosts the group chooses the book and chairs the meeting. Tonight it’s Josephine’s turn. She is a large woman with ginger hair and freckles. A voice that is long-vowelled, overpowering. A friend of hers has self-published a book so, to support her friend, she chose it. I forced myself to read it. It wasn’t very good.
Josephine opens the comments. ‘I thought the book was excellent. Very well structured. The twist about the DNA evidence was brilliant, so incisive.’
I know the DNA evidence twist is incorrect, but I do not say anything. I don’t need to contribute, I just need to be here. I mustn’t draw attention to my forensic knowledge.
Another woman, Anna, with a big nose and curly hair that frizzes, is rabbiting on about the main character in the book; criticising her every action. I close my eyes and see your body lying there. You hurt me, Tomas. You deserve to be gone. But then my stomach knots. I see your tender face moving towards mine, the first time we kissed. When you were obsessed with me. Before my novelty wore off. We loved each other once. Memories of your love come hurtling towards me like a flood. I push them away. I want book group to end. I need to get home to finish what I have started. I pinch myself and open my eyes again. The conversation is beginning to dwindle. I look at my watch and stand up.
‘It’s ten thirty,’ I say loudly. ‘I’m afraid I must be off.’
Josephine steps out of the sitting room and accompanies me to the door.
‘Thanks so much for coming. See you next month.’
I drive home. The pivotal time. I enter the house, heart palpitating. I have to act fast. No room for any mistakes. I turn the central heating on, and step into the kitchen. You are lying face down, wrapped in plastic. I feel sick at the sight of you, marble-skinned and stiff. Already bearing no resemblance to the animated man I once loved. I brace myself and swallow. I put on a fresh pair of latex gloves, and the second Tyvek suit, from my store beneath the sink.
So little time, so much to do. I mustn’t panic. I mustn’t forget a thing. I take a deep breath. I brace myself by bending and stretching, then I lift your body back onto the chair. Putting you into the same position, or as close as I can remember, as when I hit you. Trying not to think of this monstrous pile of stiffness as you, but as an empty shell I need to attend to. Unpeeling the cling film from your head, I’m relieved to see the blood is still wet and fresh. The back of your skull is such a mess. Hands trembling, I look at my measurements and photographs. Mind trembling, I recreate the original blood splatter as carefully as possible with the blood from the wound, using the pipette to get the right droplets. Pushing back tears, I take some blood and hair and put it in a plastic container and hide it in the freezer, just in case I need it later.
Almost finished. Pushing away love that has veered to hate. Gathering the incriminating evidence, all of it. Dirty evidence to be discarded, placed in one Waitrose bag – Tyvek suit, gloves, pipette, plastic sheet. Keeping the wrench in a separate one. Mind fragmenting, heart pulsating, I race upstairs to the loft, pull a mask over my mouth and nose, and dig into the insulation to bury the bags. I need to move them as soon as possible. But I know, from studying police reports, they won’t have the patience, or the time, to look there tonight.
Finally, I dash downstairs, two steps at a time, looking at my watch to check that I have been quick enough. Hands trembling more than ever, I dial 999.
40
Emma
I’m back home, after my trip to the Angel with Andrea. Good intentions about not drinking alcohol midweek over, the small glass of wine at the pub whetting my appetite, I open a bottle of Chablis and pour myself a large slug. Still envying Andrea’s excitement about finding a new relationship, I need to distract myself. I sit drinking the bottle of wine and watching Stranger Things on Netflix.
At eleven-ish, just as I’m about to pad upstairs and go to bed, I hear a police siren. I look out of the hall window. Blue flashing lights. A police car pulling into Tomas and Jade’s drive. There must have been a burglary. I hope Jade and Tomas haven’t had too much taken, I’ll contact them tomorrow to check they are OK. Shuddering at the thought that an intruder might be on the loose, I check my doors are double locked, and my windows are firmly shut.
Up to bed. The usual routine. Removing my make-up. Cleaning my teeth. Dousing my face with cream. I slip into bed and Casper snuggles next to me. His tractor-engine purr increases, soothing me, singing me to sleep. Telling me that Jade and Tomas must be all right.
41
Jade
The police are here, skewing their car across my drive, alarming the area with flashing blue lights. The doorbell rings. Two police constables are on my doorstep.
‘Are you Mrs Covington?’ the taller one asks.
I nod my head.
‘I’m PC Rosco, and this is my colleague PC Hall. May we come in?’
They step into the hallway.
‘What happened?’ PC Rosco asks.
I look at the ground, wracked with distress. ‘I came back from book group and I … and I … I found him.’ I swallow back tears. ‘In the kitchen.’ I pause. ‘Sorry. Excuse me. I’m going to be sick.’
I rush to the downstairs cloakroom and vomit. Then I flush the loo, wash my hands and splash my face with cold water. I take a deep breath to calm myself and step out of the cloakroom to go and find the police officers. They are in the kitchen inspecting your body. I walk towards them, looking down at the floor in front of me. I cannot even bear to glance across. How could I have done this to you?
PC Rosco is on his mobile requesting a crime scene investigator urgently. PC Hall is pacing the kitchen, inspecting the windows. ‘No sign of a break-in,’ he announces.
No sign of a break-in. Murdered by someone who knew you. But not me. They will never work out it was me. I feel blood suddenly rushing from the back of my head.
‘I need to sit down,’ I tell PC Hall. ‘I’ll be in the drawing room if you need me.’
‘Can I get you anything? The family liaison officer is on her way.’
‘Please tell her not to come. I’m so shell-shocked, I just want to be alone.’
I pad into the drawing room and sit, head in hands. After a while PC Rosco comes to sit next to me.
‘Mrs Covington, I’m so sorry for your loss.’ There is a pause. ‘But, we need to declare the house a crime scene and request you sleep elsewhere tonight. Do you want to stay with a friend? Or in a hotel?’
I hesitate. ‘I’ll stay at the Red Lion.’
‘OK, I’ll ring and book a room. We’ll try and get you back home as quickly as possible. Are you sure you don’t want to see a family liaison officer tonight?’
I bite my lip and shake my head. ‘I feel so awful; I just want to be left alone,’ I mutter.
‘Before you go to the hotel I will need to take you to the police station, where our detective sergeant will take a detailed statement, and some forensics. You need to bring something to change into this evening as the DS may want to examine the clothes you are wearing.’
Number one suspect already. Imagination so limited they always suspect the one who finds the body. Just as I expected. Breathe. Breathe.
‘Now I have to watch you pack your overnight bag, is that OK?’
I nod my head.
‘Do you feel up to it right now?’
‘I’ll manage.’
I stand up, still feeling faint. My body sways. I need to sit down again, and put my head in my hands to compose myself. On my next attempt, PC Rosco helps me up and holds my arm to support me. He guides me upstairs. He watches me fling things into my bag. Toiletries, clean underwear. Three clean outfits. My coat. My beanie hat. My phone charger. It looks random. It feels random. But my mind is still functioning, and despite the fug of mixed emotions, I have carefully put together the things I planned I would need. Heart rate calming, I zip up my bag. PC Rosco carries it downstairs, leaving me to trail behind him.
‘I’m taking Mrs Covington to the station to make a statement,’ he explains to his colleague. ‘And then I’ll come back and pick you up. The murder team will have arrived by then.’
PC Hall nods his head. We step outside, the night air brushing against my skin. I feel sick as we walk towards the police car. Sick with an overdose of nerves. There is no room for any hiccups in my statement. Everything needs to be consistent. Ducks in a row, lined up straight.
In the front of the car with PC Rosco, I look across at him. He is short and broad, with rugby-player shoulders. A neat compact look about him, a bit like Tom Hollander, with strong wavy hair.
Into the police station. A woman is walking towards me with toffee-coloured skin, and dark eyes. We meet face to face in the corridor.
‘Hello. I’m DS Miranda Jupiter.’
I don’t reply.
‘I’m sorry to have to put you through this when you must be feeling so traumatised,’ she continues. ‘I need to take you to the medical room to take some DNA and also to remove your clothes.’ She puts her head on one side and almost smiles. ‘It’s routine. Just for elimination purposes.’