Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,9,560635-my_darling.html
65
Alastair
Wearing my scrubs, I cross the outer office to speak to my line manager, Sarah Dickinson. I knock on the door and step inside. She looks up from her paperwork.
‘Alastair, how’s it going?’ she asks.
I sit in the chair in front of her desk and cross my legs.
‘I need to ask permission to give the murder weapon in the Emma Stockton case a second sweep.’
A frown ripples across her forehead. ‘The wrench? Why’s that?’
I lean forwards. ‘Because we need to be really careful. There’s been a false positives scam in America recently and some criticism of the techniques we’re using. There’s no harm in double-checking. A new technique has just become available.’ I pause. ‘I can handle the swabs today.’
Sarah puts her head on one side. ‘But it’s expensive to carry out more tests.’
I expected her to say yes without thinking. I take a deep breath. ‘What would you prefer? A scandal because we’ve got an incorrect result, or spending a bit more money?’ I push.
She gives me her crooked smile. ‘I suppose you’re right. Go ahead.’
Sighing with relief, I walk back to reception to collect the wrench, and carry it, in its paper bag, back to the laboratory area. I put on my sterilisation clothes, my Tyvek body suit, my gloves, my hairnets, my glasses, my mask, my overshoes.
I’m doing this for you, my love, everything for you, I tell myself as I step into my lab and smear a tiny fragment of Jade’s DNA from one of her snotty hankies onto the wrench. The tiniest amount, consistent with a slight mistake made by someone with forensic knowledge – wearing latex gloves and wiping their face by mistake then touching the wrench. I swab the wrench, and send the samples off to the central laboratory for analysis.
66
Alastair
Two days after I carried out the second sweep of the wrench, I’m sitting in the lab, thinking of you again. Always thinking of you. This time I’m remembering the first time you invited me to your house. We sat in the kitchen together drinking red wine; a Spanish Rioja, soft and spicy. Resonant on the tongue. We were laughing. I frown as I try to remember what was so funny. You laughed so much it made your mascara run. After a while you went to the bathroom. When you returned you had cleaned up your face.
‘I’ve never laughed so much with anyone that they made my face look like a panda’s, before,’ you said. ‘I’m so glad I found you on Tinder.’
‘And I’m so glad I found you too.’
I leant across and kissed you. I can still taste the tenderness of that kiss. Emma, I love you. You will never know how much.
My computer pings. An email. The results are in. Jade’s DNA as well as yours has been detected on the murder weapon now. A result that will liven up tomorrow’s progress meeting. Well on the way to getting you off the hook, my darling, my love.
67
Jade
I relive the moment your body finally succumbed, Tomas. The moment I smashed the wrench so hard you didn’t have a chance. Your head lolled forward and I knew you were dead. I wish I could have let you live. That you still loved me. That you always had. That you had never been unfaithful.
I run it back in my mind, again and again. I tell myself your death was painless, as you were comatose from Rohypnol when I crushed your skull. I try and rationalise it by saying even if you had felt the wrench, it wouldn’t compare to the pain you have given me. Why did you do it? Why did you fool me into loving you, and then play the field? Why were you serially unfaithful?
But you are still giving me pain. I miss you so much it hurts. I force myself to think back and remember why I did it. To remember the time I caught you out at a neighbour’s Christmas party, snogging a woman I had never seen before, beneath the mistletoe in the porch. I sidled past you to go home. You were so busy enjoying her, you didn’t even see me.
You rolled home hours later and snapped on the bedroom light. I sat bolt upright and blinked.
‘What do you think you were doing, kissing that woman?’ I asked.
‘What woman? What are you talking about?’
You bastard, pretending you didn’t know.
‘You tell me!’ I shouted.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have been hallucinating,’ you said as you fell, fully dressed, into bed.
That snog was just the tip of the iceberg. Usually your behaviour was far more serious. Every time I caught you, you denied it and begged me not to leave you. I didn’t want to leave you. I have made sure you have left me instead.
When I’m not crying over your loss, I just sit here and feel pleased that your latest squeeze, the Stereotype, is incarcerated.
Dealing with her wasn’t easy. Calculating the dose of Rohypnol, waiting for the right moment when she was so out of it that she would never know. Rubbing her hands vigorously on my brand-new wrench, to get as many of her skin cells on it as possible.
Watching a romcom on Netflix, waiting for darkness to fall, so that I could carry her home without anyone seeing me.
She was still comatose. Breathing shallowly. She wouldn’t wake up for hours; and when she did she would remember nothing. I put on a fresh pair of gloves. Gathered her coat, her handbag, and the new sheets I bought for her bed from Debenhams last week, and put them in my rucksack. I rummaged in her handbag to find her keys and put them in my pocket. Rucksack on, keys easily accessible. Time to lift her up. I know she’s only a lightweight, but it’s a good job I sometimes work out. I struggled as I pulled her up from the sofa. As I put her arms over my shoulder, and held her tightly against me, by her buttocks. Far heavier than she looks. My back hurt. I clenched my jaw and braced myself. This wouldn’t take long.
But I began to panic. I hadn’t been thinking clearly enough. What if she had put a burglar alarm on? I dropped her back on the sofa. She stirred a little. Was she coming round? No. She settled. My heart was in overdrive. I needed the password. A pet, usually, wasn’t it? I knew she had a cat. I’d seen it sitting on the windowsill. It was white with brown stripes, like a weird fluffy baby tiger. But I didn’t know its name. No. No. That’s computer passwords. Burglar alarms are numbers. Birthdays, etc. My panic increased. What if she came round and was still in my house? My plan would have failed.
My panic was stifling me. I couldn’t think clearly. I breathed deeply, in, out, to try and calm down. If she came round and was still in my house I would just tell her that she drank too much. She would have no way of knowing otherwise. But I would need a new plan.
In. Out. Breathe. Breathe. I rummaged in her bag. She had a diary. I flicked through it. Notes at the back. BA 12 12 2012. That must be it. BA is burglar alarm. I decided to take the risk, and determined to carry her back. My hands trembled as I returned her diary to her bag.
I put her handbag into my rucksack, and pulled it onto my back. I gritted my teeth and lifted her again. She was breathing more deeply by now, but was still way out of it. Slowly, slowly, I carried her across the sitting room, through the dining room, into the hallway. No one could see in. The blinds and curtains fall automatically at dusk. I pressed a button by the front door to switch the outside lights off.
Across my driveway. Along the pavement. Hoping no one was out late, hovering, watching this. Glad I had insisted Tomas stayed over in London that night. I reached her drive and stumbled. I fell. I dropped her. The back of her head hit tarmac. She lay splayed on the floor, motionless. I bumped my knee and struggled to pull myself up. I took a deep breath, put my arms around her and strained my back to pick her up. So slim, but so heavy. It isn’t fat. It must be muscle.
I hobbled up the drive with her across my shoulders, jumping as security lights, bright as stage lights, snapped on, illuminating us. I looked around nervously. No one watching.
Car headlights. I ducked down behind a bush at the edge of her drive and almost dropped her again.
After the car had passed, I scuttled up to her front door, rummagi
ng for her key in my pocket. It was double locked but I managed to turn it without dropping her again. In the hallway, the burglar alarm box was humming on the landing to the right of the staircase – a yellow light on a screen in the middle of it flashing. I laid her down in the hallway. The cat was brushing against her and meowing, trying to wake her up. A stupid cat. Not able to sense she was out for the count. Hands shaking, I put in the code from her diary, and the flashing light on the box went off. The humming stopped. Relief flooded through me.
So far, so good.
I walked upstairs and into her bedroom, heart pounding. Her bedroom; yellow, cream and frilly. Frilly curtains. Frilly duvet. Sickly and sweet. It suddenly made me think of lemon bonbons, my favourite confectionery when I was a child. I changed her sheets, replacing them with my new ones, and thrust hers into a plastic bag in my rucksack, ready to carry home. I carefully put her handbag by her dressing table, with her house keys on top.
Walking across the landing, I looked at the framed photographs on the wall of her with an older man. Dishy. Faded rock-star looks. I dashed back downstairs to fetch her.
She was still breathing deeply, fast asleep. The cat was lying on top of her. I pushed it off and lifted her. The stairs were going to be difficult. Maybe I should have just left her on the sofa. No. No. If she got home herself, she would have been able to get herself into bed.
My back was seizing up. The muscles in my arms tightening. She was so heavy, I was finding it hard to breathe. But I gritted my teeth, and managed. Step by step I managed. To the top of the stairs. Across the landing. At last, I entered her bedroom and slipped her body between new sheets.
‘Goodnight, darling. Sweet dreams.’
Memories
Colin, it turned out, was a professor at Guy’s Dental School. So we had dentistry in common. He invited me to attend one of his lectures, and go for a meal afterwards.
I arrived early and sat at the front, waiting for the talk to start. A plastic environment. Artificial light. No windows. A wall-to-wall whiteboard. Professor Colin Stockton, recognising me from my Tinder profile, walking towards me smiling. Stopping in front of my bench. ‘Thanks for coming.’
My stomach tumbled. Even nicer-looking than in his photograph.
He walked away to stand in front of the whiteboard by the projector. The lecture began. I listened, entranced. But I didn’t understand the benefits of the new type of filling material he was waxing lyrical about. He stopped talking.
‘Any questions?’ he beamed confidently.
My hand went up. Among a sea of hands, he chose mine.
‘Please could you expand on the benefits of the Devon amalgam?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s complicated,’ he said and began to explain.
I watched him, transfixed. Rugged good looks, the sort that turn me on. Deep, resonant voice. He could have been an actor in another life. I lost track of his exact words, just enjoyed his intonation until I heard him ask,
‘Does that answer your question?’
He was looking straight at me. I nodded my head. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Next question,’ he said, scanning the room.
A forest of hands shot up. I was still not listening. In a daydream, wondering why he was on Tinder. Surely he would have almost every student after him? Surely he didn’t need a dating app? The lecture ended and people filed out. Chatting, laughing.
He walked towards me. ‘I could explain a bit more about all the amalgams that are available now, over a spot of lunch as we agreed.’ He raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘I know a good fish restaurant nearby, it’s called Fish! Not a very innovative name, but great food actually.’
‘That would be nice,’ I replied. ‘But I’d like to talk about more than amalgams.’
68
Alastair
The team is gathering for the morning meeting, with a hum of background chatter. DI Hamilton and DS Miranda Jupiter are standing at the front of the room by the whiteboard, hands behind their backs, feet slightly apart. An expectant silence falls. My heart beats so loudly I fear someone will hear it. Its pulse thumps against my eardrums.
DI Hamilton steps forwards. ‘Emma Stockton has been denied bail. Her case should come to trial in six weeks. Before we move on, are there any remaining comments on this one?’
‘Yes please, sir,’ I say.
‘Carry on, Brown,’ he instructs in his gruff monotone.
‘I ran a second sweep on the murder weapon. This time we found Jude Covington’s DNA, as well as Emma Stockton’s.’
A murmur spreads across the room.
‘Where does that leave us?’ DI Hamilton asks, turning to my boss.
Sarah looks across at me. ‘I think Alastair should lead on this. He has been concentrating on the Stockton case, not me.’
‘Go ahead then,’ DI Hamilton barks.
I take a deep breath. ‘I found just a tiny fragment of Jade’s DNA on the murder weapon. An amount so small that it could have been left by mistake by someone who was trying to avoid leaving it. Someone with forensic knowledge. It raises the possibility that Jade Covington has set up Emma Stockton. I’ve been concerned for a while, because of the suspected cat hairs on the bedsheets when Jade does not own a cat. My first suggestion is that we send these hairs to be analysed, to find out whether they do indeed belong to a cat, and if it is possible they could belong to Emma Stockton’s cat. In which case, we should ask the question why it would be in Jade and Tomas’ house.’
‘If she was having an affair with Tomas, do you think she might have brought the cat with her, when she visited Tomas?’ a young PC suggests.
The team titter.
‘Cats are territorial – not the sort of animal you’d take to someone else’s house like a lap dog,’ DI Hamilton snaps.
‘May I suggest we send the hairs for analysis,’ I continue. ‘And we need to check Jade’s background – does she have forensic knowledge? We need to put our minds to whether she could have disguised the time of death to give her her alibi.’
‘Good God man, are you taking over the investigation?’ DI Hamilton asks with a wry smile. ‘Action all this, team. Good work, Brown,’ he barks.
69
Jade
Today is the day, a warm day at the beginning of May, Tomas. The day I must say goodbye to you. I’m laughing silently inside because your lover is in prison, unable to attend, even if you wanted her to. I’m keeping it simple. A private ceremony. We were both loners when it comes to family. But you were far more ‘sociable’ than me. So we had to move home every time you were indiscreet. And after so much angst, it has all just boiled down to you, me and the minister. A twenty-minute service.
And then your body will burn in the clinging fires of hell. You will be cremated sometime in the next twenty-four hours. I have to be satisfied with that. I always thought bodies were incinerated immediately, descending into the furnace as soon as those curtains had crept to a close.
But no. Your body will be stored and placed individually in a furnace later. Let me explain what will happen. The cremating chamber will be sealed. A column of flames will aim at your torso. First your soft tissue will tighten and burn. It will vaporise. Then your skin will become waxy, discolour and split. Your muscles will char and elongate, moving your legs and arms so that for a second you will look like the living dead; a zombie.
And last your bones will begin to crumble. Bone will be the hardest of all your body parts to destroy. Larger fragments of bone may need to be pulverised later. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Ashes weigh a similar amount to birth weight. You were big, weren’t you? Ten pounds, you told me. Ten pounds of detritus to be sprinkled in the rose garden at the crematorium. I paid for someone there to scatter your remains for me, and plant a bush. I couldn’t bear to touch your ashes. I will miss you in spite of everything. When your body has been cremated no one will ever find out what I have done. When your body has been cremated my life will move on.
&nb
sp; 70
Alastair
‘The hairs are from a cat, and eighty per cent likely to be from a Siberian Forest Cat,’ I announce as I step into Sarah Dickinson’s office. She looks up and frowns. ‘Same breed as Emma Stockton’s pedigree,’ I remind her. ‘The results just came back. They can’t specify the exact cat’s DNA – or be more precise about its breed.’
‘So where does that leave us?’ she asks.
I shrug my shoulders.
‘Still in a quandary.’ I pause. ‘Jade Covington said there were pet hairs on the bedsheets because Emma’s cat often came into her house. Emma Stockton says Casper is an expensive pedigree who’s not allowed out due to kidnap risk. As far as she knows, Casper has never escaped.’
Sarah pushed her wavy chestnut hair back from her face. ‘So what should we do next?’
I sit down on the chair in front of her. ‘Two things. One – contact the vet Emma uses. Vets keep a record of this sort of detail about the pets they treat. They’ll know whether the cat is allowed out. Clients always discuss issues like this. It affects the pet’s health and diet.’
She shrugs her shoulders, leans back in her chair and crosses her legs. ‘That would be good to know, but it’s indicative, not proof. This bloody cat may have broken the house rules.’
‘Then we need to carry out tests on the cat. I’ve contacted the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons. They’ve recommended a specialist who can look at the cat’s claws and paws to determine its habits.’ I pause. ‘As I said before, the amount of cat fur on those sheets can’t have been from a one-off visit.’