The Killing Type

by Jane Corry

  Again, I close my eyes, half-wishing I could transport myself back to a clear blue sea where you could glimpse rainbow-coloured fish and our amazing room on stilts. I would get up early every morning and swim. I force myself back to the present.

  ‘When we got back, it all began to change.’ I swallow hard.

  ‘At first, it was the little things. Simon became … controlling. He would sulk if I didn’t do exactly what he wanted. Then he made me give up my job at the paper, claiming that it was a conflict of interest as he had a high-profile position in the City. I started to feel depressed at home on my own, especially as he was away so much himself. When he did come back, I seemed to irritate him. He began to criticize me all the time. He would tell me I was the ugly sister. He ordered me to lose weight, and even suggested plastic surgery for my nose.’ Tears sting my eyes and I have to force myself to continue. ‘He said I wasn’t as much “fun” as my sister had been in the early days of their marriage and that he should never have married me.’ I speak quietly now. ‘Then I began to feel threatened.’

  I take a sip of water with my good arm. All this is making me feel light-headed.

  ‘Threatened how?’

  My voice wavers. ‘He never hit me or anything. He was too clever for that. But I could feel him thinking … planning something.’

  ‘What, exactly?’

  ‘I think he wanted to murder me.’ My voice comes out barely louder than a whisper.

  ‘Could you tell us why you think that, Mrs King?’

  ‘At first it was just small things. Simon liked to cook at the weekends. But one day, I smelt gas from the kitchen. He’d gone out to borrow something from one of the neighbours, or so he said. When I checked the oven I realized he’d left it on – unlit. Earlier he’d told me not to open any doors or windows because it was cold outside and we needed to conserve heat.’

  There’s a slight ripple through the jury.

  ‘On another occasion, he was painting our bedroom. He could easily have afforded a proper decorator but Simon used to pride himself on being practical. He said that when you dealt with money all week, it was good to get your hands dirty.’ I give a little laugh. ‘He didn’t like it when I said that some people regard banking as exactly that.’

  There’s a nod from a man on the jury who seems to agree with me.

  ‘Simon suggested that I should take my turn on the ladder. He knows I don’t like heights but he bullied me into it, saying we needed to be “more of a team”. He promised to stand at the bottom but went off to take a phone call. When I came down, I fell and broke my arm.’ I nod at my plaster cast which the jury would have noticed earlier. ‘He’d left a paintbrush on a step halfway down. He said it was an accident. I thought perhaps I was just tired. It’s meant I haven’t been able to work so I’m broke on top of everything else.’

  The courtroom is deathly silent.

  ‘I got really scared – especially as this happened straight after the bike incident.’

  ‘Can you describe this to the court?’

  I shiver again. ‘I don’t drive. I’d never been able to afford driving lessons. When I lived in London, I used to ride my bike everywhere. I brought it with me when I married Simon but he said it needed “doing up”. So he oiled the wheels and tightened the brakes for me. Then, when I rode it down to the village to post a letter, I tried to stop at the crossroads – and found that the brakes didn’t work. A car was coming – I missed it by millimetres. I nearly died.’ A sob chokes up my words.

  ‘That must have been very frightening for you,’ says my barrister.

  The judge intervenes. ‘Please don’t lead your client.’

  ‘I apologize, my lord. Mrs King, what did you think had happened?’

  ‘I think Simon did something to my brakes. I know it sounds completely crazy. But after my sister’s experience, I knew it must be true.’

  ‘You mean the fact that she reported that Mr King had tried to kill her by tampering with the brakes of her car?’

  I hear whispers spread across the room.

  ‘Yes. I just … wish I’d believed her.’ My voice breaks.

  ‘Can you tell us what happened after all these “accidents”?’ my barrister says softly.

  In my mind, I am back there now, feeling my husband’s body tussling with mine. I give a little gasp.

  ‘Please,’ says my lawyer, ‘take your time. We understand that this must be very distressing for you.’

  ‘It is.’ My voice comes out as a little cry. I take a deep breath. ‘I went home intending to pack my bags and leave. But I made the mistake of accusing him of trying to hurt me. I told him I wanted a divorce. His face was blazing. It was like he was a madman. He was screaming at me, saying he hated me. That he wouldn’t be humiliated like that.’

  I stop, trying to catch my breath.

  ‘We were at the top of the stairs. He pushed me. I knew he was going to kill me. He had me right on the edge. I managed to grip onto the bannister before I fell. I was fighting for my life. And I …’

  I can barely say the words. ‘I pushed him back,’ I cry. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him. I was so scared. I just had to get him off me.’

  The court is silent. Stunned by what I’ve just said. I don’t blame them. At times, I can’t believe it either.

  It doesn’t take long for the jury to give their verdict.

  As the court is dismissed, and everyone shuffles out, I search for my sister’s face in the gallery. She has gone.

  A month later

  Danielle

  It was Danielle’s idea that they meet again at the café. It seemed fitting somehow. After all, that’s where it had all started. The end to a circle. But Susie was late again.

  Danielle sat, drumming her nails on the table and watching the young mothers with their designer phones and babies. One was speaking feverishly as if she was having an argument with someone. ‘But where were you last night?’ she was saying.

  Danielle felt a surge of pity for her. Why was life never simple? Why did people always turn out to be different from who they pretended to be?

  The door swung open. A tall, stylish blonde woman swept in, her face half-covered with a scarf. Her sister had had a haircut that looked rather good on her. Danielle felt a twinge of jealousy. She was meant to be the pretty one.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Susie, taking the seat opposite. ‘Another journalist was following me, pestering me for an exclusive. But I managed to shake her off.’ She laughed. ‘Takes a hack to know a hack.’

  Danielle glanced nervously at the café door. ‘Are you sure she’s gone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d think they’d have given up by now.’

  ‘I know.’

  Their eyes met in a rare moment of understanding. Something else was different about her, thought Danielle. Then she realized. Her sister had contact lenses now. Her gaze was clear. More confident.

  They ordered a latte each and moved to another table in the corner where it was more secluded. ‘I’ve just been to see Mum,’ said Danielle. She glanced at her sister, but Susie was intent on stirring sugar into her coffee. ‘She asked how you were.’

  Susie bristled. ‘You know I find it hard to go.’

  Yes, she did. But Danielle couldn’t stop. ‘Her new place is lovely. Really comfortable, with everything she needs and one-to-one care. There’s a little garden leading out from her bedroom so she can see the sea.’

  ‘Are you sure she doesn’t suspect anything?’

  ‘Shhh. She doesn’t.’ Danielle looked up to check no one was listening. Most of the customers had left, leaving just the beautiful young mother talking animatedly into her phone. The baby was crying but she hadn’t seemed to notice. Part of Danielle wanted to scoop up the baby and comfort it. She’d have liked a child herself one day but Mum’s needs always had to come first. ‘She thinks,’ she continued, ‘that we can afford the new home because you’ve been headhunted by a big magazine.’

  ‘
So,’ said Susie softly. ‘We did it then.’

  ‘We did,’ agreed Danielle. She felt a familiar stab of guilt. ‘Do you feel bad about it?’

  ‘No,’ said Susie firmly. ‘I don’t. We did what we had to. We had no choice.’

  Was she right? Sometimes Danielle wasn’t sure. She thought back to the text she had sent her sister all those months ago.

  I need to talk to you. It’s about Simon. Meet you in the old café. 12 o’clock.

  When Susie had finally arrived, Danielle had told her what she was upset about. It wasn’t simply that Simon was bullying her. If it had just been that, she would have left him at once. It was their mother. ‘He says he won’t pay for her care any more. What are we going to do? She’ll have to go into that awful place again. I wish you’d never brought him into our lives.’

  It was true. Susie had been the one to introduce them. She’d met this rich banker through her work who, she thought, would be sure to fall for Danielle. Simon was charming, handsome and – this was the most important part of their plan – had enough money to be able to move their mother into a lovely care home not far away from them. She was paralysed from the waist down and needed one-to-one care. This place was one of the best in the country.

  But soon Simon had begun to reveal his true colours. He became tight over money, always checking Danielle’s statements. He would only let her have an allowance, which he gave her in cash every week so she couldn’t spend more. He continued to pay for their mother’s care, but it seemed like just another way to control Danielle. Then there was his insistence that she should stop auditioning; stop seeing her friends. He began sending texts to an old girlfriend which she found on his phone. When Danielle accused him, he threatened to cut her mother’s care unless she shut up.

  Of course, the conversation in the café had been very different from the one they had described to the police. ‘Perhaps I should just divorce him and take the risk,’ Danielle had said.

  ‘No!’ Susie had banged her fist on the table, making her jump. Her sister could be like that. Quiet one minute and aggressive the next. Thankfully the group of mothers had left the café a couple of minutes ago. ‘I’ve interviewed men like this a million times and you can be certain that he won’t let go of his money. Men like that are clever. They hide their assets.’

  ‘I just don’t know what to do. Sometimes he looks at me and I swear it’s like he wishes I was dead.’

  ‘What if we made that happen?’ said Susie slowly. ‘I mean, suppose there was a way to make people think he tried to kill you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Danielle looked at Susie. Something was going on in her head. She’d learned the signs well enough as a child.

  ‘No,’ said Susie firmly. ‘That would be too obvious – at least in real life.’ Then she sucked her pen as if in thought. ‘Mind you, if I was writing a crime book, I might put that into the plot. I’d make everyone disbelieve you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Susie’s eyes lit up. ‘I have an idea. Last year, I did a mechanics course when I was doing research for a piece on gendered job roles. I could damage the brakes on your car so you crash. You just have to drive slowly so you’re not hurt. But then you can go to the police and say your husband is trying to kill you.’

  ‘They won’t believe me.’

  ‘That’s the whole point. Don’t you see? Then I’ll tell them you’re lying. They won’t suspect me of being an accomplice if we show that we don’t get on. I could go down to the police station to claim that in my view Simon was innocent – and you could just turn up “coincidentally” and accuse me of twisting the facts because we don’t like each other …’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Just listen, will you? Then Simon will divorce you.’

  ‘We’ve already agreed he’ll make sure I don’t get much money if we do that.’

  ‘But then I’ll marry him.’

  ‘You? What?’ Danielle spluttered with disbelief.

  ‘I don’t flatter myself that I have your looks. But if I play my cards right, he might just marry me to get back at you. He knows there’s no love lost between us. Once we’re married, I’ll pretend that he’s trying to kill me too because he still misses you and wants shot of me. Maybe l’ll even have an accident myself.’ Susie’s face was lit up in a massive grin. ‘It would fit in with those texts to that girlfriend which you found on his phone. Clearly Simon has issues with letting go of the past. Then I’ll tell the police that when I confronted him, he attacked me and I had to kill him in self-defence. I’ll find a good way. Perhaps the stairs … If they have two sisters saying the same thing – two sisters who reportedly hate each other’s guts – then they’ll have to believe us.’

  Danielle felt the blood draining from her. ‘You would really do that?’

  Susie went quiet. ‘I owe it to Mum.’

  It had all seemed as far-fetched to Danielle as some of her sister’s unpublished books. But it had worked like a dream, even though it had been harder – and more painful – than they’d realized to break Susie’s arm in a mock ladder accident. Susie hadn’t liked the idea of not being able to write properly but as she pointed out, it would draw more sympathy if she could ‘prove’ Simon’s actions had affected her work. Danielle had been shocked by the lengths her sister was prepared to go to.

  ‘Don’t you feel guilty?’ she asked her now in the café. ‘I mean, Simon was controlling and a bully. But he wasn’t a killer.’

  The baby had stopped crying as though it was listening.

  ‘Shh.’ Susie got up. ‘We had to do something, didn’t we?’

  ‘We?’ questioned Danielle.

  A shadow passed over her sister’s face as she stood up to leave. ‘It wasn’t all my fault, you know.’

  After Susie had gone, Danielle sat at the table. For the first time in ages she let herself remember that terrible day. She’d been fifteen and her sister sixteen.

  They’d had one of those stupid arguments they were always having. Usually it was about clothes – they were the same size so often borrowed from each other without asking permission. But on this particular day, it was about the school trip.

  They’d each come running back with letters, meeting their mother outside the front door of the flat just as she was coming back from her work as an office receptionist.

  ‘Look,’ yelled Susie, waving her note as she ran up the stairs ahead of them. ‘Our class is going to Yorkshire and we’re going to visit the home where the Brontë sisters lived.’

  Danielle waved her note too. ‘Our class is going to a place called Devon for a whole weekend. We’re going to stay in a youth hostel.’

  Their mother frowned. ‘I can’t afford two trips,’ she said. ‘Susie’s will be cheaper. I’m sorry, Danielle. You can go next year.’

  ‘That’s not fair.’ Danielle burst into tears of disappointment.

  ‘Come on,’ said their mother. ‘You’re too old to cry.’

  Behind her back, Susie was making a smirking face. ‘Baby,’ she mouthed. How Danielle hated being the younger sister. Susie was always being allowed to do more things.

  ‘She’s teasing me,’ shouted Danielle, lunging forward, dropping her letter on the floor.

  ‘Careful,’ said their mother, grabbing her arm. There was a flight of stone steps leading from the narrow entrance hall where they were standing down to the next level of flats.

  But Susie was still making faces, crowing about her good fortune. This time, Mum saw. ‘Stop aggravating her, Susie. I told you I’d punish you if you did that again. I’ve changed my mind. Danielle can go on the trip now. I’ll have to find the extra money from somewhere.’

  ‘Yes!’ Danielle punched the air in triumph.

  ‘No,’ howled Susie. ‘You know I love writing. I want to see where the Brontës lived. There’s going to be a real author there to give us tips on how to get published one day.’

  ‘Then you should have been nice to your
sister.’

  It was as though Susie changed into someone else then. Her face went all contorted and angry. It reminded Danielle of a wicked witch in a story book which their father had once read them, long before he’d died.

  Susie lunged towards Danielle. Mum stepped forward. Her foot slid on Danielle’s letter. There was a horrible sound as she crashed down on the steps, turning over and over.

  When she got to the bottom, she just lay there. Not moving. Paralysed for life.

  Postscript

  Susie

  I always knew Simon would be useful to us somehow. Mind you, I never thought we’d end up killing him. I don’t like to think of Danielle and me as cold-blooded killers. But sometimes love – and desperation – makes the most unlikely pair work together and do things they would never normally do.

  I wasn’t lying about one thing in court. When we were standing on that top step, Simon had yelled that he’d always preferred my sister. She was more beautiful, more fun. It gave me that extra impetus to send him flying.

  The important thing is that we’ve solved Mum’s problems. I’ve put Simon’s money in a trust fund for her. No one else can touch it. I’ve made sure that she’ll be as comfortable now as she can ever be.

  I finally finished my novel. Well, it’s more of a novella. It’s called The Killing Type. Because the truth is that there is no such thing. Every one of us – however innocent we look – is capable of doing terrible things in certain situations.

  I made a mistake, though. I couldn’t help sending it off for a competition. I suppose part of me wanted to tell the truth for once. I never thought it would win first prize. Even though it was under a pseudonym, that sharp-eyed policeman saw it and put two and two together. So I got fame for my writing in the end, though not in the way I expected. I was re-tried and sentenced to fifteen years. I could have shopped Danielle but in the end my sisterly side got the better of me and I told the court that she knew nothing of my plans. The judge declared that justice had finally been done.