Wink Murder

by Ali Knight

  ‘That’s the new campaign because the interest is sky-high again. They’re repeating the whole series on cable. Our share price has jumped.’

  ‘That’s convenient.’ He ignores me. ‘They’ve made him look more dangerous this time, haven’t they? They used to use those pictures that highlighted his laughter lines.’

  ‘He didn’t kill her,’ Paul says, shaking his head. ‘And this copycat theory is bollocks. She wasn’t only strangled, she was stabbed too! It’s hardly an exact match.’

  ‘I heard on the radio someone saying that because he’s old he can’t use the brute force he used the first time. He needed to incapacitate her first.’ Paul makes a frustrated sound. ‘It’s got your series back on air, hasn’t it?’

  He turns on me, angry now. ‘Yes it has. And you know what? I’m glad. This is the best programme I ever made. I’ll defend it again and again, like I’ve been doing since last week.’ He leans his elbow out of the window, ‘Did you find what you were looking for in my office?’ He’s staring straight at me now, challenging me to explain why I stepped over the boundary into his workspace.

  ‘Why did you lie for me when Mackenzie called?’ He’s stopped in neutral in the street. A truck honks impatiently as commuters take the opportunity to weave in front and behind us. A cyclist coasts past us by the kerb, bumping the wing mirror. We are hemmed in on all sides by our lies, our suspicions and our secrets.

  ‘Because you’re my wife. You’re the mother of my children.’ There’s sadness in his voice. We’ve made a pact with each other. It’s a Gordian knot and I know that those knots can’t be untied, only hacked apart. ‘Livvy phoned yesterday. She mentioned that you’re doing good things on Crime Time.’

  A horrid thought occurs to me. ‘Have I ruined my chances now that I’ve been arrested?’

  ‘And discharged. Everyone else on that show has probably been done for something or other. Don’t worry.’

  He pulls up outside a Tube station that’s sucking people in through its doors. ‘I’m going to a meeting with a reputational management consultant over how we position Forwood through this mess. The joy never ceases.’ He looks away through the windscreen. ‘You know, Kate, I’ve never been happier than the day I married you.’ I open the car door and am carried away from him before I can think of a reply.

  I pick up a free newspaper from a metal rack by the stairs. Gerry’s face stares out from the front cover, a smear of rage across it as his arms are held by a policeman on either side. His white hair is messed, his crooked teeth caught at an unflattering angle. The photographers were tipped off that he would be taken in for questioning and they sure got their fill of photos. Nice. ‘Back inside’ says the headline.

  Gerry Bonacorsi shows the world the anger that made him Britain’s longest-serving lifer yesterday as the former magician who strangled his wife gave police a volley of foul abuse as they took him in for questioning over the murder of TV researcher Melody Graham. Bonacorsi’s controversial release into the community may be short-lived, according to a spokesman for the prison service. ‘Convicted murderers have strict conditions attached to their freedom and resisting the police in this way may contravene those conditions.’ Aspects of Melody’s murder bear a striking resemblance to that of Delia Bonacorsi’s in 1980, for which Bonacorsi served thirty years in jail. He was finally freed just over a month ago after reality-TV programme Inside-Out filmed his life in jail. Police questioned the suspect for four hours yesterday before releasing him without charge.

  On page 5 I find a colour picture of Delia, smiling shyly at the camera. Around her neck she wears a cross that was not enough to save her from the man closest to her.

  21

  I’m two streets away from my house when my mobile rings with a number I don’t recognise. It’s Eloide asking if I’d like to meet for lunch today. Normally I politely decline (ill children are the gold standard of excuses) and I sense we’re both relieved that we can sidestep her attempt at continuing a friendship neither of us want. But today as I reach for my door keys a frisson of victory flows through me. I’m party to new and dangerous information that changes the dynamics of our threesome. It’s petty, but whoever said we had to put away childish things as we got older was delusional. I’ll break bread with the enemy.

  ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  There’s the beat of a pause. ‘Great!’ She’s committed now whether she likes it or not.

  When I get up to my bathroom I change my mind and want to cancel. I look older than Gerry Bonacorsi; my guilt and the lies I’ve told, not to mention my night-time activities and sleepless night, have given me a grey, unattractive pallor. A scalding shower, a smearing of foundation and four aspirin are the best I can do to remake me and I head out at midday. I nearly fall asleep on the train.

  Forty-five minutes later Eloide opens her smoked-glass front door and leads me into her pristine cubey kitchen cum dining room cum chill-out zone. Or rather into her boyfriend’s. It’s his house. The last time I saw Eloide was at a Halloween party here. I attend these functions because I don’t want to leave Paul and her together, I need to crane, take notes and file gestures and atmospheres away. Eloide was wearing the very latest dress shape in black silk, chunky bracelets and towering designer shoes with fringing that swayed like a hula dancer as she moved. She had to bend down to kiss my cheek. Paul says it’s important we appear at these events because Eloide knows a lot of high-profile TV people and sure enough Paul got stuck into industry gossip while I swapped platitudes with another marooned wife about Eloide’s garden doors. Don’t make the mistake of thinking this conversation was dull, quite the opposite. If you drill deep enough, you can sometimes uncover the most extraordinary revelations. It’s a technique I learned when I worked in market research; you discover how to ask the right questions. Turns out that Hannah preferred blinds to curtains to cover those large expanses of glass because an intruder can’t hide behind them. Hannah (she was tall with a long nose that she could probably touch with the tip of her tongue) had a fear of being attacked in her own home after being mugged five years ago. She grabbed my hand. ‘It’s weird. I never talk about that now. I had no idea it had affected me so much.’ There, in a nutshell, was the power of ladder-technique questioning.

  A loud peal of laughter interrupted our heart to heart. Paul was telling Eloide a joke on the other side of the room. She lifted her fringy foot high behind her as she laughed. She was the dazzling hostess, in demand and on form, and we were the planets orbiting her sun.

  Today she’s wearing a miniskirt, ballet flats and sheer tights. She has very good legs. She’s got on a blouse with a pussy bow and billowy long sleeves. It’s the only item of clothing I’ve ever seen her in that I haven’t coveted. She’s not wearing make-up and instantly I feel my red lipstick is too try-hard, my foundation cakey. I’m not sure she’s even brushed her hair. Eloide is careless with her looks in a way that only the truly beautiful can be. She has no idea how irritating that is.

  She pads across a marble floor and perches on a chair by the kitchen table, crossing her perfect legs at the knee and the ankle.

  ‘So. How are things with you?’ She smiles as if I’m one of her B-list celebrities she wants a quote from.

  ‘They could be better, to be honest.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘So you know about Melody?’

  ‘Yes. Paul told me.’ Paul told me, the three most annoying words in the English language. ‘He said you’d both been interviewed by the police.’ I nod, my irritation jamming on maximum.

  ‘It’s just so terrible . . . poor Paul.’ She begins to smooth her hair with a hand and then stops. ‘Oh, I mean, not just terrible for him . . .’ She looks at me imploringly, realising she’s being crass. ‘I meant that he worked with her . . . God, let’s rewind and start over, can we?’ Nervous laughter accompanies her as she rolls one hand over another. She’s illustrating with gestures, just in case I’m too dumb to understand.

  ‘What e
xactly are we starting?’ I cross my arms, wishing I hadn’t come.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ She sways to her immaculate kitchen cupboards and pulls out a gleaming coffee machine. ‘I don’t want there to be bad feeling between us. We were friends once and I hope that we can be friends again.’ She pushes the percolator plug into the socket with a clunk and looks at me brightly.

  She’s got to be kidding. Is she pitying me? Oh God, don’t let her know about my husband and Melody. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but life’s too short, isn’t it? I know Paul’s put you up to inviting me for lunch. But you must have lots of friends, you certainly don’t have gaps in your social life. I don’t see why you’re trying to force it.’

  She nods as she pulls out a filter. ‘I can understand why you see it that way. But – and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way – I still care for Paul even though he left me for you. He was a huge part of my life and I still want him in my life. I wanted to know if you had a problem with that’ – she draws quotes in the air round ‘problem’ with her fingers – ‘and if you did what I could do about it.’ I look at Eloide in her fashion-forward home, the sunlight bouncing off her shiny surfaces, her shinier hair. I feel like a fat ugly toad. I run my foot up the hard edge of her modern table leg, reassured by the sense of certainty is gives me. I like borders, knowing where something starts and another thing ends. Eloide likes mixing it all up: Asian fusion dishes, open relationships, staying friends with old lovers and ex-husbands, calling your parents their real names, not Mum and Dad, yoga retreats in Ibiza. It’s all too Swedish for me, her boundaries bleeding into one another like paint colours swirling in a tin. ‘So . . . some coffee? It’s great with a touch of cinnamon.’

  Oh no it is not. ‘I’ll have a tea. Builder’s, please.’

  ‘Of course.’ She pulls open a cupboard and I see packets and boxes lined up neatly. How did she cope with Paul’s untidiness? Not well, I imagine. His infidelity? Even for someone unfettered by convention that must have hurt – a lot. I still want him in my life. I watch her open a new packet of PG Tips, pop the curve of cardboard in her kitchen bin – no, make that the custom-made recycling station. She pulls open a drawer and winces as she catches a finger on something sharp. She swears loudly and I soften towards my former rival. I was her friend another lifetime ago. Paul hurt her and I hurt her. She takes some goat’s milk from the fridge and pours it into her cup. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got normal for you.’ She flashes me an amused look as I let out a sigh of relief that’s probably louder than I intended. The sun slices across the table and a spiky plant sways on the decking outside. It feels like California and I’m suddenly in the mood for confessions, for talking about my feelings.

  ‘Maybe I do feel uncomfortable with your . . . friendship . . . with Paul’ – I’m already struggling with my terminology – ‘because yours is not the normal reaction. Most people would want to run away from the awkwardness of the situation, start anew, if you like. Because you – and he – don’t it makes me . . .’ I shift my shoulders to fill in for my lack of words. It’s a long way from the English suburbs to LA easy-cheesy truth-spilling.

  She smiles most brilliantly. ‘I think I understand. But life is always moving on. Paul and I are entirely different people from when we were married, but I’d rather work out unresolved issues than run away. It’s not about regaining the past, it’s more about providing a connection that helps me make sense of my life as it goes forward.’ She levers her hand like a flight attendant as I nod. I’m quite enjoying this. ‘And it’s easier to make sense of it if there’s no bad feeling with you.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel you’re pushing in a bit too much.’

  She looks shocked. ‘Then I apologise. I honestly didn’t realise that’s how my actions might be interpreted. I have no ulterior motives. Most of the time we talk on the phone about work, I tell him who the up and coming people are, feed back gossip I pick up in the toilets at nightclubs. He tells me titbits about TV, some of which are useful for my blog.’ We lock eyes. ‘Which I know he told you about, so don’t pretend otherwise.’ I don’t reply, because she’s right. Eloide doesn’t only cosy up to celebrities at book launches and hotel openings, experience her career through the stage-managed, smiling shots of the accredited photographers. She’s changing with the times, adapting to the harsher, more cutthroat hunger for celebrity titbits. She runs a no-holds-barred gossip blog where all the really salacious stories go. The blog’s anonymous and she’s very keen to keep it that way.

  I take a big gulp of tea. ‘Have you discussed you and me with him?’

  ‘A bit.’ I wait for the shard of jealousy to pierce me, but I feel nothing. ‘He says he’s a relationship pacifist.’

  ‘What on earth does that mean?’

  She giggles. ‘I think it means he just wants everyone to get on.’

  ‘I’m glad he saves those phrases for you, otherwise we wouldn’t have lasted as long as we have!’

  Eloide laughs. ‘Oh, Kate, your scepticism about . . . I need to be careful here I don’t want to unintentionally offend you’ – she holds her hand in a stop gesture, – ‘the value of therapeutic methodologies is unparalleled.’

  ‘Oh stop. A cup of tea and a chat work just as well most of the time.’

  We mirror each other’s smiles. ‘Or, in my line of work, a Bellini and the deck of a yacht.’ Eloide picks up my drained cup and her own and removes them to her Corian-topped kitchen island.

  For the first time in ten years I don’t have a tightness across my belly being in Eloide’s company. I sink back into the surprisingly comfortable white plastic moulded kitchen chair as she sweeps some imaginary crumbs off the table with the back of her hand. I look at the cups on the island, more white on white. She’s placed them with their rims touching and the handles outwards and balanced the teaspoon across the rims. Some people get paid good money to label someone living like this as having obsessive compulsive disorder. I think she’s just bloody tidy. I look at this immaculate kitchen space and think how little time it would take my children to ruin it.

  ‘How is Lex coping at the moment?’ she asks. ‘If ever there was a man who needed therapy, it’s him.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Oh! He’s so driven, wound up like a spring.’ I nod, distracted. I’m looking at the cups. ‘If things don’t go his way he gets very angry. I think he has rage issues that need to be . . .’ Those cups. Something is tugging at my memory but I can’t see what it is. The cups and the balanced spoon are a little white sculpture, they’re like a painting and I’ve seen that pattern before somewhere . . . ‘. . . that anger usually intensifies as one gets older . . . Kate?’

  The white plastic chair tips over behind me as I stand up sharply. ‘You’ve been in my house.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve been in my house!’ I’ve grabbed Eloide’s arm and I’m squeezing. I’ve seen those cups before, supporting that teaspoon, on my own draining board. How long ago was it? A month? Two or three? I put a Sainsbury’s bag down next to them and the spoon clattered to the floor. She’d been in my kitchen. Where else in my house had she invaded? I’ve discovered a cuckoo in my nest, trampling over boundaries.

  My fury at being taken in so readily by a bit of bleached decking and a nice day explodes. ‘This is bullshit!’

  ‘Let go!’

  I yank her arm and she’s almost pulled across the table. ‘You make me sick, spouting pseudo psycho claptrap –’

  ‘It’s not what you think—’

  ‘Stay away from my husband and don’t you ever dare go near my children or I swear I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Kate, I only wanted us to be friends—’

  ‘Friends! Friends confide! They support each other, they don’t sneak around each other’s houses when they’re not there. I’d never tell you anything!’

  She’s crying now and I think it might be from the pain of my fingers in her arm. ‘Stop it!’ There’s a strange noi
se and I realise I’m screaming as I yank her arm harder and I see the scared ‘O’ of her gasp, and then I stop as the pussy-bow blouse sleeve has ridden up her arm and I’m looking at four livid cuts above the wrist. White scars in her perfect flesh surround the fresh gashes.

  ‘What fucked-up crap is that?’ She stops writhing as I loosen my grip and she slowly and with quite a lot of dignity pulls her sleeve back down over the mess.

  ‘I’m sure you find that shocking. Not the thing a girl with the best job in the world is supposed to do.’ She smoothes her hair. ‘If you’re wanting secrets, there’s one.’

  ‘Why do you do it?’ Eloide throws her hands up in a useless gesture as tears begin to run across her high cheekbones. I scowl, unmoved by the crying. ‘Secrets again. Well, here’s one. I think Paul killed Melody. What does the party girl think about that?’ I can’t believe I’m telling her. That this suspicion I’ve lugged around with me for over a week I’m now unwrapping in front of my enemy. I’m spewing my troubles on to her fragile psyche. I want to see if she’s strong enough to cope with them.

  I think I expected Eloide to grill me for a motive or denounce my suspicions as groundless. What I get is her laughter, the full belly roar of the hysteric. I exit her house to the normality of puffy English clouds and a red Post Office van angrily swerving around the road humps. Her manic laughter chases me past the wheelie bins, hidden behind wooden slatted screens. How ironic that Paul always wanted us to get on.

  22