by Adele Parks
By now, DC Clements will have searched Daan’s apartment block. It would be lax of her not to, considering Fiona told her he is unfaithful, an accomplished liar. They will have found the room. Well, Fiona wasn’t able to keep it secret forever. Kylie was getting rebellious. That stunt with the plasterboard, that annoying clanking of her chains. Fiona couldn’t keep drugging her and starving her, one thing or the other, so a move had become necessary. When they dust the room for fingerprints, they will find empty water bottles and protein bar wrappers with Daan’s fingerprints on them. When they search Daan’s apartment they will find the cash receipt she planted, for a chain and zip ties, a plastic bucket purchased at B&Q ten days ago. Eventually, if they search well enough – and DC Clements will because she strikes Fiona as the thorough type – they will find Leigh and Kai’s phones hidden in the back of Daan’s wardrobe.
Fiona stole the protein bars and bottles of water from his kitchen, not on her last visit to his flat but on the one before. This whole escapade had taken quite some planning, quite some organisation. Fiona is rather proud of herself, how thorough she has been. How she has thought of everything. Kylie always believed she was the smart one, as she was a management consultant and a bigamist too, but in fact Fiona has outwitted her. Tortoise and Hare.
Fiona isn’t a lawyer though, and there’s only so many things a person can sensibly google so she’s not absolutely certain whether this amount of evidence is circumstantial, or more robust. She believes Daan will be arrested and trialled for Kylie’s abduction. Of course there is a possibility that he’s left the country by now but that won’t look good either. He will naturally protest his innocence and no doubt hire brilliantly cunning lawyers who will draw out the case for his extradition to the UK; even if he has to stand trial, he may or may not be convicted, again because he can pay for decent lawyers. Without a body, it will be hard to make a case that will carry a long sentence. But there may be a body. Fiona expects Kylie’s body will wash up. She’s already told the DC that Daan has visited her cottage on the coast, it will be assumed he returned to a familiar place to dispose of Kylie. He hasn’t ever visited her home, of course. Nothing so cosy, nothing so committed. Still, that’s not a problem. She has planted enough items around her place to convince a jury he has been there. A single cufflink, the partner of which is still in his own apartment, a glass with his lip and fingerprints, his toothbrush, a pair of boxers. Bits and pieces she picked up from his place when she stayed over on Saturday.
Fiona smiles, confident that Daan will go down for Kylie’s abduction and murder. Yes, he might get a lawyer to argue him out of a long sentence or he might rot in jail. Who knows? Who cares? It doesn’t matter either way. Even if he gets away with a couple of years, his reputation will be ruined. For the rest of his life he will have scandal and shame attached to him. Staining him. People will shun him, whisper about him behind their hands, behind his back. He’ll no longer be the golden boy. The Man. Maybe, in the future, he will think twice about nonchalantly entering into extra-marital sex; casual, indifferent sex with hopeful women. Because what he has done is cruel. Vicious. He needed to be taught a lesson.
Fiona is gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles are almost transparent. She thinks of Kylie describing that overwhelming lust, her smug explanation of her aloofness which made Daan hot. He’d had his fill of ‘needy, clingy weepy types’, had he? Well, it is unlikely any woman is going to cling to him now. A man drenched in infamy and suspicion.
Then there is Mark. What of Mark? Mark who Kylie finally chose but could not settle for when she had the chance. Silly girl. Well, Fiona has done Mark a favour, obviously. Yes, she was a bit blindsided by that mix-up over the cause of Frances’s death. That had confused things, almost sent the police the wrong way. But that will smooth out, in light of the evidence against Daan. Fiona plans to help Mark pick up the pieces. She will slowly but surely mend his broken heart. Fiona hadn’t thought she’d necessarily step into Kylie’s shoes with Mark, she’d assumed he was too devoted. But it is interesting what pain and betrayal can spawn. He kissed her! She hadn’t wanted the kiss to stop. She thinks now of his lips: warm, soft, urgent. Yes urgent. He wants her. Needs her. He isn’t in love with her yet, obviously. She’s not stupid! But there is interest. A kiss shows interest. Besides, he likes having someone to mother the boys. That had been Kylie’s in, way back when. He isn’t a man who does well on his own. When the time is right, Fiona will step in. She will comfort the boys, guide them through the next stage of their lives: exams, universities, relationships. She will be a grandmother one day! She can hear Mark’s voice ringing in her ears, ‘You’ve been really good for the boys. I don’t know what we’d have done without you.’
Yes, she will become Oli and Seb’s stepmother, she will become Mark’s wife. Third time lucky for him! She will be patient, careful but she’ll make it happen. Hasn’t she proven anything is possible if you focus? She is glad Kylie chose Mark in the end. It is deeply satisfying knowing she is going to finish up with exactly what Kylie had finally worked out she wanted.
She will ultimately have one of Kylie’s lives.
Fiona really has thought of everything because she has had plenty of time. She’s known about Kylie’s bigamy since just before Christmas. She was over at Daan’s, he had just done his usual wham, bam, thank you ma’am in the kitchen, and was making noises about Fiona getting on her way. When he popped to the loo, she’d taken the opportunity to have a quick snoop around. She had started to suspect a wife or at least a significant other and wanted to find evidence. Actually, she wanted to be proven wrong, but even then she thought it was unlikely that she would be wrong. There was always a wife. Some part of her always expected a wife. She hadn’t expected it to be Kylie, though. She really had wanted to die the moment she realised. A closet full of women’s clothes told her he had someone, the wedding photo by his bed told her who. She was paralysed with shock and shame. She wanted to curl up in a ball and stop breathing.
She followed Kylie for weeks. Tracked her every move to be certain. It seemed so unlikely, there had to be another explanation. Twins separated at birth seemed more plausible than a double life. But after she had trailed her from one home to the other for weeks, months, and there was no room for doubt, Fiona began to realise Kylie was the one who deserved to feel shame. To stop breathing.
Initially, she hadn’t planned on killing Kylie. Killing is so extreme. Just teaching her a lesson. Getting her to think about everything she had done. But she would not think. She would not own it! All that bleating on! That justifying. All week. It drove Fiona mad. The plan had been to punish Kylie for stealing Daan away from her. For being greedy, hoovering up two husbands when Fiona hadn’t even secured one. She thought Kylie might come to her senses, ditch Daan and maybe he would turn to Fiona. But Kylie would not pick one of them, no matter how hungry, beaten or scared she was.
And then Mark kissed Fiona.
She got closer to the boys.
Things shifted.
It was obvious that there was no chance for her with Daan, he was cold and indifferent towards her. He was in love with Kylie, but Mark moved on – surprisingly quickly. She didn’t want to think of herself as rebound – who did? – but she was a woman of a certain age, time was running out for her, she didn’t like dating married men, so options were limited. If she had allowed Kylie to live and simply had Daan brought into disrepute, as she originally intended, she may still have ended up alone, because Mark might have taken Kylie back. He was kind-hearted like that. To a fault! She couldn’t risk it.
Mark deserved happiness.
Fiona wanted happiness.
Kylie had been happy, twice. And, Fiona thought, that was enough.
Gripped by Both Of You?
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t from Just My Luck…
THE BUCKINGHAMSHIRE GAZETTE
9th November, 2015
Elaine Winterdale, 37, a property manager, has been handed a suspended prison sentence for failing to maintain a faulty gas boiler that caused the death of two tenants from carbon-monoxide poisoning.
Reveka Albu, 29, was found dead with her son Benke, 2, by her husband Mr Toma Albu, 32, at a property they rented in Reading, on 23rd December 2014.
Following an investigation by the Health and Safety Executive, Ms Winterdale was today sentenced at Reading Crown Court for breaches of gas safety laws after she failed to arrange gas safety checks to be carried out at the property over a three-year period, despite assuring her employer, the owner of the property, that she had done so.
In June 2011, an employee of National Grid Gas visited the property to replace the gas meter. The boiler was labelled as ‘immediately dangerous’ due to ‘fumes at open flue’ and was disconnected. A report was left with Mrs Albu and subsequently a letter was sent to Ms Winterdale, which she failed to respond to or pass to the owner of the property.
The boiler was not repaired. For two and a half years the only heating in the home was from one borrowed electric fire.
On 22nd October 2014, Mr Toma Albu was away from home overnight and returned to find the flat warm; his wife informed him that after repeated petitions Ms Winterdale had finally arranged for the boiler to be reconnected.
On the evening of 23rd December 2014, Mr Albu returned home after a double shift to find his wife and son dead. Tests showed Mrs Albu’s blood contained 61 per cent carbon monoxide. A level of 50 per cent is enough to be fatal.
Ms Winterdale pleaded guilty to seven breaches of the Gas Safety Regulations and was given a 16-month prison sentence, suspended for two years. She was also given 200 hours community service, was fined £4,000 and was ordered to pay costs of £17,500.
1
Lexi
Saturday, 20th April
I can’t face going straight home to Jake. I’m not ready to deal with this. I need to try to process it first. But how? Where do I start? I have no idea. The blankness in my mind terrifies me. I always know what to do. I always have a solution, a way of tackling something, giving it a happy spin. I’m Lexi Greenwood, the woman everyone knows of as the fixer, the smiler (some might even slightly snidely call me a do-gooder). Lexi Greenwood, wife, mother, friend.
You think you know someone. But you don’t know anyone, not really. You never can.
I need a drink. I drive to our local. Sod it, I’ll leave the car at the pub and walk home, pick it up in the morning. I order a glass of red wine, a large one, then I look for a seat tucked away in the corner where I can down my drink alone. It’s Easter weekend, and a rare hot one. The place is packed. As I thread my way through the heaving bar, a number of neighbours raise a glass, gesturing to me to join them; they ask after the kids and Jake. Everyone else in the pub seems celebratory, buoyant. I feel detached. Lost. That’s the thing about living in a small village, you recognise everyone. Sometimes that reassures me, sometimes it’s inconvenient. I politely and apologetically deflect their friendly overtures and continue in my search for a solitary spot. Saturday vibes are all around me, but I feel nothing other than stunned, stressed, isolated.
You think you know someone.
What does this mean for our group? Our frimily. Friends that are like family. What a joke. Blatantly, we’re not friends anymore. I’ve been trying to hide from the facts for some time, hoping there was a misunderstanding, an explanation; nothing can explain away this.
I told Jake I’d only be a short while; I should text him to say I’ll be longer. I reach for my phone and realise in my haste to leave the house, I haven’t brought it with me. Jake will be wondering where I am; I don’t care. I down my wine. The acidity hits my throat, a shock and a relief at once. Then I go to the bar to order a second.
The local pub is only a ten-minute walk away from our home but by the time I attempt the walk back, the red wine had taken effect. Unfortunately, I am feeling the sort of drunk that nurtures paranoia and fury, rather than a light head or heart. What can I do to right this wrong? I have to do something. I can’t carry on as normal, pretending I know nothing of it. Can I?
As I approach home, I see Jake at the window, peering out. I barely recognise him. He looks taut, tense. On spotting me, he runs to fling open the front door.
‘Lexi, Lexi, quickly come in here,’ he hiss-whispers, clearly agitated. ‘Where have you been? Why didn’t you take your phone? I’ve been calling you. I needed to get hold of you.’
What now? My first thoughts turn to our son. ‘Is it Logan? Has he hurt himself?’ I ask anxiously. I’m already teetering on the edge; my head quickly goes to a dark place. Split skulls, broken bones. A dash to A&E isn’t unheard of; thirteen-year-old Logan has daredevil tendencies and the sort of mentality that thinks shimmying down a drainpipe is a reasonable way to exit his bedroom in order to go outside and kick a football about. My fifteen-year-old daughter, Emily, rarely causes me a moment’s concern.
‘No, no, he’s fine. Both the kids are in their rooms. It’s… Look, come inside, I can’t tell you out here.’ Jake is practically bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. I can’t read him. My head is too fuzzy with wine and full of rage and disgust. I resent Jake for causing more drama, although he has no idea what shit I’m dealing with. I’ve never seen him quite this way before. If I touched him, I might get an electric shock; he oozes a dangerous energy.
I follow my husband into the house. He is hurrying, urging me to speed up. I slow down, deliberately obtuse. In the hallway he turns to me, takes a deep breath, runs his hands through his hair but won’t, can’t, meet my eyes. For a crazy moment I think he is about to confess to having an affair. ‘OK, just tell me, did you buy a lottery ticket this week?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’ I have bought a lottery ticket every week of my life for the last fifteen years. Despite all the bother last week, I have stuck to my habit.
Jake takes in another deep breath, sucking all the oxygen from the hallway. ‘OK, and did you—’ he breaks off, finally drags his eyes to meet mine. I’m not sure what I see in his gaze, an almost painful longing, fear and panic. Yet at the same time there is hope there too. ‘Did you pick the usual numbers?’
‘Yes.’
His jaw is still set tight. ‘You have the ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, it’s pinned on the noticeboard in the kitchen. Why? What’s going on?’
‘Fuck.’ Jake lets out a breath that has the power of a storm. He falls back against the hall wall for a second and then he rallies, grabs my hand and pulls me into the room that was designed to be a dining room but has ended up being a sort of study slash dumping ground. A place where the children sometimes do their homework, I tackle paying the household bills, and towering piles of ironing, punctured footballs and old trainers hide out. Jake sits down in front of the computer and starts to quickly open various tabs.
‘I wasn’t sure that we even had a ticket, but when you were late back and the film I was watching had finished, I couldn’t resist checking. I don’t know why. Habit, I suppose. And look.’
‘What?’ I can’t quite work out what he’s on about, it might be the wine, it might be because my head is still full of betrayal and deceit, but I can’t seem to climb into his moment. I turn to the screen. The lottery website. Brash and loud. A clash of bright colours and fonts.
1, 8, 20, 29, 49, 58. The numbers glare at me from the computer. Numbers I am so familiar with. Yet they seem peculiar and unbelievable.
‘I don’t understand. Is this a joke?’
‘No, Lexi. No! It’s for real. We’ve only gone and won the bloody lottery!’
2
Lexi
£17.8 million.
£17.8 million.
£17.8 million.
No matter how often I say it, I can’t make sen
se of it. In fact, the opposite is true. The more I say it, the less real it seems. I can’t imagine what it means. Not really. Our numbers are on the screen. They are still there, I’ve checked a thousand times, just in case, but they are there. And the other numbers too. The numbers saying how much our winning ticket is worth – 17,870,896 pounds. So much money! I rush to the kitchen and grab the ticket off the noticeboard, suddenly terrified that a freak gust of wind has blown it away, or that one of the kids has knocked it off when they pinned up their letters from school. Although this makes no sense because in the entire history of our family life, neither of our two kids has ever pinned up a letter from school; I’m much more likely to find them crumpled up at the bottom of their rucksacks. I stare at the tiny hole made by the drawing pin; the ticket is slightly creased at the corner. How can this scrap of paper be worth 17.8 million pounds? It’s unbelievable. It’s incomprehensible. What does this mean for us? I turn to Jake to see if he is making any more sense of this. Jake beams at me. It is the widest, most complete beam I have seen him wear for years. I’m reminded of our early days together. When we were nothing other than hope and happiness. It makes me splutter laughter through my nose.
‘Are you sure this is right?’
‘Absolutely. I’ve checked. I’ve watched the draw six times on YouTube. They’ve announced that there is a winner. Just one. Lexi, that’s us! We are rich. Rich beyond our wildest dreams.’
I giggle again because the phrase is crazy. Rich beyond our wildest dreams is something people only say in pretty dreadful plays or movies. My body is tingling. I can feel every nerve end. It is almost painful. ‘Wow. I mean wow. What shall we do?’ I ask.
‘Well, we need to call it in.’
‘How do we do that?’ My fingers are cold, immobilised, but on the other hand I feel hot and no longer solid. I am melting. The two glasses of wine I downed now feel like six. Shock, I suppose.