Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,6,560635-my_darling.html
I know it’s routine. Most people who are murdered are murdered by someone close to them. Find a dead body. Suspect the person who finds it, especially if they are a spouse.
We go to the medical room. She watches me studiously as I remove my clothes. She bags every item individually into brown evidence bags. I dress in clean clothes. Jeans and a jumper. Trainers and socks. Then she swabs my mouth for DNA and takes my fingerprints.
‘Just to help clarify the DNA we find at the crime scene.’
Just to clarify, DS Miranda Jupiter, I know why. I know more about forensics than you.
‘We need to take a statement from you,’ she says gently.
‘That’s fine.’
She leads me along a corridor into an interview room. The usual. No windows. A recording machine. Grey plastic table. Grey chairs.
‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ she asks as I sit down.
‘I’m fine.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you don’t look fine. You look shell-shocked.’
‘I am.’ I bite my lip and almost manage to feign tears. But the tears that fell earlier won’t come again.
There is a plastic jug full of water and some plastic cups on the table in front of her. She pours some out and hands it to me. ‘Here, drink this.’
‘Thanks.’
I sip the water. It is tepid. Its warmth sticks in my throat. PC Rosco enters the room and sits down next to DS Jupiter.
‘However awful you’re feeling we need you to try and concentrate,’ DS Miranda Jupiter says. ‘We need as many details as possible about the lead-up to your husband’s death. We’ll start the machine to record this interview in a few seconds. I need you to keep calm and really, really think.’
She nods at PC Rosco who starts the recording.
‘Wednesday twenty-seventh March 2019. Interviewing Mrs Jade Covington. PC Rosco present.’
‘DS Miranda Jupiter.’
The DS leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. ‘When was the last time you saw your husband alive?’
I see the blood haemorrhaging from the wound at the back of your head. Feel the force of the wrench as I hit you again. I see your loving face leaning in to kiss me on the day we were married. Your golden voice resonates in my head. I look at the ground. I close my mind to the past.
‘At breakfast time, before he went to work.’
‘Did he seem OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was everything all right between you and Mr Covington?’
I bite my lip. ‘Not really. We’d been having a few problems.’ Her eyes tighten. ‘He was having an affair with Emma Stockton, our neighbour. I had caught them together several times. I told him I was going to leave him.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘How did he react?’
‘As he always does. Says he’s sorry. That he can’t bear it if I leave. That he’ll never stray again.’
‘So he has been unfaithful before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to tell me more about your relationship?’
I push back tears. ‘It’s too painful to talk about right now. All I can say is I loved him so much.’
She stirs in her chair. ‘Where were you this evening?’
‘At Josephine Brooker’s house, 76 Vale Way – at a meeting of the Henley book group.’
‘All evening?’
‘It started at seven thirty p.m. I left at ten thirty p.m.’
Seven thirty, the time you are always home on Wednesdays, Stereotype.
‘Are you happy for me to contact your book group to verify that?’
‘Of course I am, yes.’
She leans forwards. ‘So you came home from work briefly, did you, before you went to book group?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you didn’t see your husband?’
‘No. I didn’t see him until … until …’ My voice is breaking now.
‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt your husband?’
‘No. Not really. Everyone always loved Tomas.’ I pause and shake my head slowly. ‘I suppose Emma must have been upset, if he had finished with her. He told me he was going to.’
Memories
Home from school. Walking into the kitchen to see Mother. She turned from the kitchen sink, where she was peeling potatoes, to greet me. Mother, but not Mother. A monster stood before me. Right eye swollen. Lids closed. A kaleidoscope of purple and black bruising decorating her face.
I went to the fridge, poured myself a glass of milk. I sat at the kitchen table.
‘Mother, you’ve got to do something about this.’
‘About what?’ she asked.
My hand shook. I spilt the milk. It skimmed across the table like white blood. I took a cloth from the sink and wiped it up. She walked towards me, and stood in front of me.
‘I opened the cupboard at the back of the garage too quickly, and the corner of the door banged into my eye.’
‘Do you expect me to believe that? If you don’t do something about it I will.’
She put her hand on my arm. ‘I’m begging you not to, Emma. It’ll only make things worse.’
42
Jade
Into my bedroom at the Red Lion. Body trembling as I throw myself across the four-poster bed. Tomas, I cannot get you out of my head. Remembering you when we first met, after hooking up on Tinder. Watching you walk into the café in Sunbury, thinking I was punching above my weight. Your golden looks. Your flat torso. Shoulders as broad as bricks. So much better-looking than me. I knew as soon as I saw you that I would never be able to keep a man like you. You smiled at me and my insides twisted.
I smiled back. You kept on walking towards me. You sat down opposite me.
‘How do you do? I’m Tomas.’
‘I’m Jade.’
‘Jade, how should we start?’
‘Tell me a few things about yourself.’
‘OK then. I’ve never dated on Tinder before. But I’ve never met anyone I really, really want to be with, so I thought I’d give it a try.’
Silence fell. You looked embarrassed. You grimaced.
‘Go on. Next thing,’ I pushed.
You shrugged your shoulders. ‘Do we have to do this?’
‘Yes,’ I insisted.
‘Can’t we just have a normal conversation?’
‘No. Because I’m spiky.’
‘I like spiky.’
‘Actually, I’m aiming for sardonic wit but it always comes out wrong.’
You put your head back and laughed. ‘I like you, Jade. I think we could have fun.’
And we did, for a while, back then. We married quickly. Our wedding was a small affair, as we were both only children with no surviving parents. It was easier that way. Just us and our witnesses, two friends from work, at the local registry office. Afterwards we ate at a trendy Italian restaurant near the river. We were so full of love for one another. So sure it would work.
I lie across the four-poster bed and sob. Loud, body-wracking sobs. Fighting for breath, too emotionally wrought to give way to the soft release of tears. I see your wound. Your blood gushing. And my sobs increase.
Then I see you in our bed with Emma. Face contorted with passion. And I know what I did was right. You betrayed me. You didn’t deserve to live.
43
Alastair
First thing in the morning, I’m sitting in the scrubs area, when the buzzer sounds. A few seconds later a robotic voice announces, ‘To the incident room immediately.’
Blood pulsates around my body, heightening my sensation. This part of the job is what makes it worthwhile; coming together as a team, to solve a crime. Tingling with anticipation I make my way along the corridor, into the incident room. The incident room is buzzing with curiosity and chatter.
A murder. Must be. DS Miranda Jupiter and her boss DI Hamilton are here. Miranda is looking as unruffled as ever. No frowns. No smiles. Alwa
ys straight-faced. She would look pretty if she smiled. DI Hamilton is scribbling on the whiteboard. He turns to face us. Silence descends.
‘We have a forty-five-year-old Caucasian man, Tomas Covington, found dead in his kitchen. The death was phoned in at ten fifty-eight p.m. by his wife when she returned from book group, or so she said. Large wound on the back of his head. No forced entry.’
My stomach tightens. Tomas Covington dead? Emma’s neighbour. Should I tell them I knew him, and even had a meal in the house where he was found?
Not yet. I only met him once, after all.
‘So,’ DI Hamilton continues. ‘We have investigated the crime scene fully, all samples from the crime scene are waiting for forensics. Sarah Dickinson, Alastair Brown and team, you’re going to be very busy. We look forward to you reporting back.’ He pauses.
‘The autopsy is taking place as we speak, but the pathologist has already confirmed it looks like blunt instrument trauma. We haven’t found a possible murder weapon yet. We’re waiting for a full report on the time of death, which will be critical. Miranda, do you have anything to add?’
DS Miranda Jupiter steps forwards. ‘I spoke to Mrs Covington last night, shortly after she had found the body. Evidence gathered so far supports her story. The interesting point is that Mrs Covington told us that her husband, Tomas, was having an affair with their neighbour, an Emma Stockton.’
My heart feels as if a fist is squeezing it. I can hardly breathe. Emma, having an affair with Tomas? No. I can’t bear it. No. Heather has betrayed me, and now Emma? The air tightens around me. I need to tell them that I know Emma. But … but, they never ask who we know. If I tread carefully, they won’t find out. Anyway, Emma and I haven’t known each other long; we are not married, we don’t live together. Air tightens in my gullet and I decide not to tell my boss, Sarah Dickinson. At least not now. I need to stay on the case. I need to know whether Emma is honest.
44
Emma
I’m between patients, having a slug of coffee, when a policewoman steps into my consulting room. Long dark hair. Cupid’s mouth. Chocolate-drop eyes. Beauty laced with an acidic expression.
‘Are you Emma Stockton?’ she asks.
‘Yes. Can I help you?’
She whips her ID card out of her wallet, then whisks it away so quickly I hardly see it. ‘I’m DS Jupiter. I need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Fire away,’ I reply, as I have no reason to believe she isn’t who she says she is.
‘Do you know Tomas Covington?’
‘Yes. Not very well. He lives next door to me. He and his wife, Jade, have just moved in.’
‘Are you having a relationship with him?’
‘What?’ I splutter. ‘No. Of course not.’
DS Jupiter scribbles something into her notebook.
‘Ms Stockton, if you’re lying to me I have to warn you that there may be serious consequences.’
‘His wife’s told me from time to time that he finds me attractive, but he’s never made any advances to me. Or I to him. He’s my patient – that’s all. What’s the matter? Why on earth are you asking me this?’ I reply.
‘Because I’m very sorry to have to tell you your patient is dead.’
My sharp intake of breath makes a slicing sound. ‘What? How?’
‘That’s why I’m here, trying to find out.’
45
Alastair
Sitting in your drawing room, glass of wine in my hand, watching the sinews and shadows in your face. Sad and taut. Shaking your pretty head.
‘I can’t believe Tomas is dead.’
My heart stops. Tomas. What did he mean to you?
‘Why is Jade saying I had an affair with him?’ you continue. ‘What’s wrong with the woman?’ There is a pause. ‘What’s wrong with the woman?’ you repeat, louder this time. Is this genuine? Or are you over-egging it? Heather was a liar. Are you a liar too, Emma?
I take your hand in mine. ‘I don’t know. Her attitude worries me, Emma. She’s definitely trying to push the focus onto you.’
‘She was from the start. Warning me he might be attracted to me. How could she tell? You can’t predict attraction, can you?’
I look at you and smile. ‘Maybe. I mean you are attractive, aren’t you?’
You shrug. ‘You tell me.’
‘You know I find you attractive.’
I kiss you. You push me away. ‘But did he?’ You pause. ‘He never insinuated anything. All he ever did was tell me how much he loved Jade. Not exactly an extramarital seduction line. The whole situation is ridiculous. The Clusterfuck is dangerous. That’s all there is to it.’
I shudder inside. ‘Mad and dangerous,’ I say as I pull you towards me and kiss you again.
46
Jade
Another night at the Red Lion, in my ancient beamed bedroom. And another, perhaps? Pushing the family liaison officer away during the day. I don’t want her breathing down my neck. How long are they going to keep me here, now that my life and my home have become a crime scene? Are they going to tear through my house looking for evidence? Rip out the loft insulation and uncover my plot? Sitting in my hotel bedroom, I know I need to act.
I wait for dusk. Too light. I wait for darkness. Too many people walking past. Two a.m. A quiet world now. I want the receptionist to think I’m still in my room, so I slip out of my bedroom window onto the hotel portico’s roof. Climbing down, balancing on the jutted wall at the front, landing heavily, almost twisting my ankle. A sharp slice of pain. There for a second and gone.
A cold, damp night. I shiver and zip up my jacket as I walk across the bridge over the river, head down, hoping no one will see me. Along the path by the Leander Club, through the car park towards my house. I stand outside. Unlit. Silent. I sigh with relief. The police have decided not to work through the night.
I pull the latex gloves and overshoes from my handbag and put them on. I carefully unpick the police tape across the doorway. So carefully that I can replace it. Turning the key. Stepping inside. Darkness and silence pressing against me but I do not switch on the lights. Using the torch on my iPhone, I move through the hallway into the kitchen.
Moonlight floods through the large picture window, illuminating the shadow of your memory. For your body is gone, Tomas. And only your ghost is left, stepping towards me, telling me that you are sorry. That you will never cheat on me again. And for a second I wish I could hold you, touch you, pull your warm body towards me again. But I shake my head. It is too late now. Our last goodbye has been said.
Heart pounding, I move upstairs to the loft to find out whether the police have found the evidence they need to prosecute me. I put on a dust mask from the pile you kept at the entrance. Fingers trembling, I grasp at the insulation in the corner of the loft and scrape it back. Breathe. Breathe. The tremor in my fingers decreases. The bags are still here. I pull them out. I push the loft insulation back and step away.
Breathe. Breathe. I need to pay attention to detail. One mistake, however slight, could incriminate me. Into the bathroom. Washing the blood from the wrench down the sink. Wrapping the wrench in clean plastic. After my dirty work, I put on a fresh pair of gloves. All the debris from my deed is in my ‘dirty’ Waitrose bag. The wrench is carefully stored in a new clean one.
Almost there. Time to leave. Step by step, guided by light from my iPhone. Step by step downstairs. Opening and then re-locking the front door. Slowly, carefully, replacing the police tape. At last, with a sigh of relief, moving back into the safety of the night. The headlights of a car pierce through the darkness towards me. I duck down behind my crinodendron bush as they move past.
Slowly, slowly, creeping through the side gate into your garden, Emma. Towards your shed. Opening the door. New latex gloves. Taking the wrench out of its bag. Removing the plastic off the wrench. Placing it in your tool box.
Off and away, feeling elated. My planning is really paying off. Along the footpath by the river, whipping off the la
tex gloves and overshoes, adding them to my debris bag. It’s a silent night, apart from the occasional hiss of a passing car and the plaintive cry of a lonely river bird.
Through the silent streets of town, avoiding the CCTV cameras. I know where they are. But the clothes I managed to remove from my bedroom when I was being watched by PC Rosco happen to be black. A black phantom, even if captured by a camera, is difficult to see. A black phantom, wild and invincible. Along to the roadside plastics recycling bin, where I deposit my debris bag.
Back to the Red Lion Hotel. I stand looking up at the portico. My mind freezes. Climbing back up looks difficult. Harder than climbing down. I can’t reach high enough to stand on the small row of bricks that juts out. I must climb up the plastic drainpipe. Will it be strong enough?
I’ve come this far. There is no going back. I will have to take the risk. I grab on to the drainpipe and pull myself up like a monkey. It holds my weight. I heave my legs across onto the flat roof of the portico and collapse into a relieved heap, sliding in a pool of stale rainwater. So stale it smells like sewage.
Bedroom window left open, I drag my exhausted body inside.
Memories
Sitting in a room at the police station in front of a female officer. DS Simpson. Short blonde wavy hair. Wide Marilyn Monroe lips. Telling her everything that has happened to you, Mother. She listened intently. Then she leant forwards.
‘It all sounds very serious, but your mother needs to report this herself. Can you try and persuade her to do that?’
I shook my head. ‘She won’t. I’ve tried so many times, but she always says it’ll make things worse. She’s so afraid of him.’ I paused. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do to help?’
‘Call us next time something happens and we’ll come round, ring the doorbell and ask your parents if everything is all right. But your mother needs to make a complaint about your father. She needs to tell us. And a doctor needs to be shown any injuries. If he hurts her a doctor needs to verify it.’