Kiss Me, Kill Me

by Mullins, Louise

  I rinse out a used goblet and pour in the wine almost to the brim. It tastes sour and woody. There are particles of cork bobbing along the surface of the five-year-old French red.

  I neck it, wiping the drips that descend from the corners of my mouth with the sleeve of my jumper.

  I pour another which I sip while searching through the fridge for something to cook. I find eggs, haddock and the cheese Humphrey bought in Snowdonia.

  I’m plugging in a pair of pearl earrings when the first set of headlights beam across the lawn.

  I open the front door with half a glass containing the last of the bottle of red in one hand and my lipstick in the other. ‘Roberta, it’s so good to see you. Come on in.’

  Gerald frowns as she air-kisses me and holds me too tight when he draws me towards him for a stiff hug when it’s his turn to be greeted. He pats my arm as he steps back and holds my gaze for too long.

  Pinpricks of unease leave gooseflesh to coat my skin.

  I totter down the hall in my heels and bounce my hip off the doorframe as I lead them into the dining room where I’ve left my iPod attached to the Bluetooth speakers. The sub-woofer is parked on top of the eight-foot-high unit that contains brassware – too high for anyone to reach and detach without using the stepladder I returned to the shed preventing anyone from changing the music. The remote control is in my pocket so only I have the power to turn it down. This is my night; I’m listening to what I want at the level I choose.

  ‘There are appetisers on the dining table. Dinner should be ready in twenty minutes.’

  ‘That’ll give your girlfriend time to arrive.’

  ‘Sorry?’ I tap my foot absentmindedly to the beat of a catchy tune I often sing along to in the car while running errands.

  ‘Kim’s late. Perhaps she’s had another falling out with Derek.’

  ‘I thought they were solid.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving, Bethan.’ He glues his eyes to mine a second longer than necessary.

  Roberta sighs and reaches for a bottle. ‘They’re not having marriage problems, Gerry.’

  He turns, links arms with his wife and leads her away from the champagne. ‘Not tonight, Bertie. We don’t want a repeat performance of your karaoke skillset.’

  I vaguely remember handing her a microphone at one of our gatherings but I don’t remember her using it. Perhaps I was drunker than I remember being then too. Has only two weeks passed since our last soirée?

  ‘Where’s Humphrey?’

  ‘I’m to apologise for his absence, but he’s had to visit a business associate abroad. Something to do with the contract for one of the properties he sold.’

  ‘I see,’ says Gerald.

  ‘Which one?’ says Roberta.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I thought he’d sold them all?’ says Rupert from behind me.

  I shrug.

  ‘Did he give you an estimated time of his return?’ says Gerald.

  ‘No. I’m afraid not.’

  I serve poached haddock with cheese sauce, and boiled, buttered potatoes. I sprinkle a mixture of finely chopped lemongrass, chives and dill from what’s left of the frost-covered herb garden on top of each plated slice, and sway to Ava Max’s ‘So Am I’ while downing the last dregs of wine from my goblet.

  We eat and drink and feign pleasantries, and by midnight Kim and I are seated on the arbour, huddled beneath a fleece blanket, swigging wine from champagne flutes. Her eyes refuse to leave Derek.

  ‘How did you meet?’

  ‘France,’ she says, without reverting her eyes from her husband. ‘I was on a friend’s hen night. He was conducting business with a bar owner. We got talking and, voilà.’

  ‘He was marketing Gerald and Roberta’s wine?’

  ‘I believe so,’ she laughs. ‘It’s a small world, huh?’

  We clink glasses, share a look that instantly warms my thighs, and minutes later we’re running upstairs to the bedroom, and we’re fumbling to remove each other’s clothes.

  There are damp lips on skin, hot mouths on flesh, fingers exploring, and tongues gliding before we reach euphoria.

  I’m sat behind Kim, clasping on her white lacy bra when Gerald walks in.

  Kim’s face turns scarlet. ‘I was trying on one of her dresses.’

  He surveys the crumpled bed.

  ‘It didn’t fit.’

  He nods and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

  How long has he been skulking around upstairs for?

  Derek’s voice calls up the stairs, ‘Are you expecting anyone else?’

  I slide my hands down her smooth arms and walk to the window. The headlights of a vehicle hit the brickwork below, to where the kitchen is situated.

  ‘I’ve got to go and deal with this.’ I kiss Kim’s full lips. ‘Don’t move.’

  My heartrate has ratcheted up a gear and my feet betray me as I stumble down the stairs to face the lone policewoman who stands in the open doorway, Gerald holding the door wide, wearing a creased brow.

  ‘Kirsty Richardson?’

  DI LOCKE

  Now

  I close my car door and immediately see Jones stood waiting for me at the entrance of Cwmbran CID. He motions for me to follow him from the car park, into the building, down the corridor and across the incident room to his desk.

  He taps the top of his computer monitor. ‘Nightshift handed this over to us.’

  I speed-read the report made by PC Malone at 2.09 a.m., my pulse building with every word.

  Neighbour who wished to remain anonymous called 101 to report noise disturbance at Wildflower Manor, Goldcliff at 12.15 a.m. Neighbour was advised to call the council as it is classed as a civil dispute. Neighbour rang back at 12.27 a.m. and said community warden line was engaged and warned they were going to confront the homeowner and remove the device that was the source of the noise, themselves. Neighbour was advised not to as that action would be considered theft. Neighbour swore then hung up. I was then sent to the property to ensure an incident did not occur and arrived at the scene at 12.52 a.m. It was apparent there was a party underway. I requested the music to be turned down and was informed by the man who answered the door – Gerald – that I’d, ‘have to speak to the homeowner, Kirsty Richardson, the lying tramp who currently goes by the name of Bethan Philips.’ Bethan then descended the stairs and introduced herself as Mrs Philips. A brief argument ensued between Bethan and Gerald. Bethan then apologised for the music level, switched the music off and assured me the sound would discontinue. Satisfied the noise had abated I returned to Newport central police station and wrote up the incident report. When I typed the name Mrs Kirsty Richardson into the system it flagged her up as a warrant absconder, wanted in connection to the disappearance of her husband, Garrett, and their four-year-old twin sons, Alfie and Leo, in 2015. The photograph supplied with the report, distributed force-wide and marked as a red alert with Interpol, matched the face of the woman I spoke to, who called herself Bethan Philips.

  I glance up at Jones. ‘You’ve read the file.’ It’s not a question but he nods.

  ‘Kirsty and her husband separated when the boys were three years old. She filed for divorce and moved out of the family home.’

  ‘It’s unusual for the husband to stay put. Has she reported any allegations of intimate partner violence or coercive control?’

  ‘No. But he did begin proceedings to gain contact with the children, which suggests she was preventing him from parental access. We don’t have all the details of the family court case, but the father made several reports to the police with increasing concern over the whereabouts of the twins and his wife’s welfare. When Kirsty failed to attend the third consecutive court hearing Garrett’s solicitor advised him that without a Child Arrangements Order in place, a DNA test to confirm his relationship to the children, or his name on their birth certificates – their births were registered while he was working away – he had no legal right to pursue a claim, and certainly not to dictate whe
re his children resided or how much contact he had with them. Then he found Kirsty, living in Bristol.’

  ‘Her tenancy agreement gave her landlord permission to place her on the public electoral register.’ I sigh.

  He nods. ‘That’s how he said he discovered where she was living. When he asked to see the children, she was evasive, so he admittedly forced entry into her one bedroom flat, found “no evidence the boys existed,” left and called the police.’

  ‘I take it this was when Avon and Somerset Constabulary went to speak to her and found the flat empty of possessions?’

  ‘Yes. The police attempted to contact Garrett to update him on their investigation, but his mobile phone was switched off. They visited the house which he’d remained living in several times, but found the post piling up on the doormat. They passed the information on to CID who undertook a basic background check on the children’s medical records which alerted them to the possibility of child abuse, suspected by the twins’ health visitor who had already made enquiries with the local authority regarding her concerns that the boys were being neglected before Kirsty had removed them from the family home. CID then organised a multi-agency staff meeting where social services presented their opinion, after which the police decided that Kirsty should be arrested on a Part 5, Section 66, of the Serious Crime Act.’

  The 2015 legislation makes it possible to charge an individual for causing or allowing a child to suffer serious physical harm.

  ‘On what basis?’

  ‘Medical negligence.’

  ‘How did they manage that?’

  ‘She missed an appointment with the boys’ health visitor, failed to book them in for their MMR vaccines, didn’t provide their GP with an up-to-date address or telephone number after their abrupt move, and never registered them with another. Alfie had a chest infection at the time and had been prescribed antibiotics which hadn’t been collected from the pharmacy. Except when detectives attended the flat to execute the warrant, they discovered that she’d done a runner.’

  ‘That was five years ago?’

  ‘Just under.’

  ‘Could you go and pour me a coffee? I’ll have a read-through of everything we have and request copies of what we don’t. We’ll reconvene to discuss the case at midday.’

  Everything I read reflects what Jones told me.

  I’m writing up the search and seizure warrant when my phone shrills the Nokia theme tune. I reach for it absentmindedly, eyes glued to my computer screen. ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Emma, it’s Miss Stewart, Jaxon’s teacher. He’s had a bad morning, I’m afraid. He’s been screaming and has hit his one-on-one twice. He’s struggling to regain control of his behaviour. Would it be possible for you or his dad to come and collect him?’

  What she really means is she doesn’t feel confident the methods she’s using are as effective as the textbook on additional educational needs stated when she trained to work with kids who have neuro-developmental disorders or learning difficulties, and she can’t get hold of Johnno so expects me to leave work and pick him up, which she knows I will because although I enjoy my job, I love my stepson more.

  ‘Sure. Give me twenty minutes.’

  I put the phone down, exhale a deep breath of irritation and log out of the system.

  Jones appears at my side. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Jaxon’s having a meltdown, his teaching assistant can’t cope. Johnno’s not answering his phone, so Mother Hen here must go and collect him and get a bollocking off the Chief for the privilege. I’ve emailed you a brief lowdown of our next steps. Read through it, conduct a risk assessment, compile an arrest team with Evans, choose the pool cars you want to use and list the expenses for me to sign off. I should be back here within the hour.’

  I arrive outside the school in my own vehicle, pass the tight security of the reception desk and enter the head’s office to find Jaxon on all fours, red-faced, snot dripping down his chin, head-banging a cushion that moves across the carpet with every thump.

  He turns at the scent of my perfume, twists round to face me, opens one eye and groans.

  ‘Hey, Jaxon. I understand you’ve been feeling upset. Do you want to talk to me about it?’

  He shakes his head, grunts, wipes his eyes and lunges for me. I hold his hot little body against mine while he thrashes about on my lap until I feel his heartrate slow and his limbs relax. ‘Shall we go home and see Daddy?’

  He nods, uses my leg to pull himself upright then walks ahead, down the corridor, running his hand along the dado rail then rubbing his fingers together to rid them of the physical memory that the texture of the glossy wood provides.

  I glance back to Miss Stewart. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Actually, we’d like to discuss the possibility of reducing his school hours.’

  I swallow the you’ve got to be shitting me and replace it with a, ‘I’ll get Johnno to call you before 3 p.m.’

  She tries to explain the reasoning behind her decision, then apologises, but I’m already fighting back the tears and trying to grasp Jaxon’s hand before he darts across the playground and into the road.

  Johnno’s car is in the driveway when I pull up outside and he’s out of it before I’ve unstrapped Jaxon from his car seat. ‘I got your voicemail and left work as soon as I could to come straight home. What’s happened?’ He bends to Jaxon’s height so they’re eye level. ‘Are you alright?’

  I explain the situation, his reaction mirroring mine when I mention the lack of adequate supervision within the infant’s school to accommodate Jaxon’s needs, then I’m released from parental duty, slipping almost seamlessly back into the role of investigator.

  I return to HQ, sign the search and seizure warrant, hand it over to Jones and wait.

  The drive to Goldcliff takes twenty-five minutes from Cwmbran CID. I’m not familiar with the territory but I know my colleagues will pass the Wetlands: two square miles of marshes and mudflats with a sea view of the Severn channel.

  I wait for a text message from the arresting officer to confirm that Kirsty has voluntarily sat inside the back of the marked car, and the search to locate Alfie and Leo has begun on the property before I allow myself to exhale a long breath of relief.

  The first hurdle has been crossed.

  Now for the difficult part: getting Kirsty to admit to murdering her ex-husband and two young sons.

  MELANIE

  Then

  I ran the length of the hall, the silk evening gown that accentuated my slim physique clung to my legs, slowing me down. The damask curtains in the lounge caught my eye as they blew against the wind that burst through the sash window.

  I flung open the front door and it thumped against the wall.

  I ran towards Brandon’s retreating form, down the path to the gothic pillars, the gargoyles leering at me from their pedestals. One pointed toe of my heel caught on the hem of silk wrapped round it and I tripped and fell in front of the wrought iron table. The shock of pain as my knee hit the concrete stole the breath from my throat. I lay on the wet ground, listening to the ding of the rain hitting the glass, watching it bounce off the patio slabs. A tree branch creaked; the gale strong enough to set a car alarm off from somewhere nearby.

  I awoke to the unwelcome shrill of my bedside alarm clock, began my morning routine and tried to forget about the dream: my subconscious replaying the night Brandon died in a fictionalised montage each time I lay down on our bed and closed my eyes.

  But it was no use. Regardless of how much alcohol I consumed, how much cocaine I snorted, nothing could replace him.

  Sex helped. It provided me with a release. As did shopping.

  My job paid well. It also funded my grief-fuelled binges.

  It was during one such weekend I got knocked to the pavement from behind, swept off the street by the scruff of my jacket, and deposited into a strange car. I didn’t feel my face hit the glass, my head lolling against the side window each time my abductor braked, until I saw t
he bump on my cheek the next morning, my nerves no longer numbed with booze or by the class A substance that left white dust on the shiny placemat parked on the edge of the coffee table in my home. The place I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again.

  I stared at Danny’s reflection in the mirror above the mantle. He sat on the armrest of the sofa, legs spread, palms face-down on his large thighs – a relaxed pose that betrayed the hint of violence in his dark eyes.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ I swung round to face him. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Pack an overnight bag.’

  ‘Why? I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘You’re a mess, and as you’ve no one else to look after you I feel it’s my duty to see you right.’

  That’s how I ended up on a psychiatric ward at St Cadoc’s.

  *

  Dr Watkins put the journal down and gave me a smile that caused the creases at the edges of her eyes to reveal her age. ‘I get the impression you’ve come to accept Brandon has died and you’ve begun to address the influence your past experiences have had on your present circumstances.’

  ‘You’re either psychic or very intuitive.’

  ‘I prefer to think I’m skilled at my job.’ She paused, leaving a notable gap in speech I knew preceded an insight on my behaviour. ‘I’ve noticed you often flatter me when we discuss certain topics that I perceive you consider too intimate. I get the impression you’ve chosen to inject humour into our conversation to avoid an uncomfortable subject. I’m interested to know what you think about my observation?’

  ‘I find it difficult to accept kindness more than criticism because of the way my mother was quick to indicate my faults and the way I sought my father’s approval despite his parenting failures.’