by Liz Evans
‘So what did you do?’
‘I just racked my brains. I mean, I couldn’t even offer him some of my jewellery because Stephen had gone and changed the safe combination again. He’s always doing that and I really wish he wouldn’t. All I had on me was a thousand pounds and maybe another two thousand I could get out on my cash cards. In the end I had this wonderful brainwave. I sold my car.’
‘Just like that?’
‘No! It was incredibly difficult. Even though I had all the papers, they wouldn’t give me cash. They kept offering crossed bank cheques and Tom said that was no good, he didn’t have an account. In the end we found this really obnoxious little man in a junk yard in London who offered me eight thousand. Which was just outrageous because it was worth at least three times that.’
‘He probably thought it was nicked.’
‘Really?’ She gave a gurgle of pleasure. ‘How fantastic.’
‘Where was Tom during this tour of used-car dealers?’
‘Well, following me in the van, of course.’
‘With the body in the back?’
‘Yes.’
How come fictional murders aren’t like this, I wondered? Where are all those meticulously planned, cleverly plotted deaths like in Agatha Christie and P.D. James novels? These two would have been more at home in a Quentin Tarantino movie. Talk about disorganised.
‘Well, I was getting quite frantic by then. In the end Tom said, all right, he’d take eight, plus some money that girl had in her bag. So we settled up and I got a taxi to Heathrow. He did offer to drive me, but it seemed best that he got started on getting rid of the you-know-what. He was going to take it somewhere up north and drop the luggage and bits of pieces off on the way. Then he was going to go over to the continent to ... what was it he called it ... suss out his friend’s bar.’
‘Didn’t it occur to you that you were taking a big risk? He could have turned up on the doorstep any time and asked for a top-up on the eight grand to keep his mouth shut?’
‘I thought of that!’ She came a few steps further into the room. I shifted my grip on the wine. ‘I’d got him to pick up the bath-oil bottle ... the one I’d hit her with ... to get finger prints, and then, when he was in the post office, I’d put it in my shoulder bag. I showed him it just as I was getting the taxi. And I said if he ever told, I’d say I’d come home and found him with the body and he’d just terrorised me into helping him.’
‘And you’ve still got that bottle, have you?’
‘Oh no. I put it in a rubbish bin at the airport. Well, it would just have been a nuisance on the flight. And providing he thinks I have it, it doesn’t matter, does it? Do you know, he was quite hurt that I didn’t trust him. It was really rather sweet.’
There wasn’t much else to say. I slung the wine bottle. The base clipped the rack as it left my hand and deflected to the right slightly. It sailed past her head and smashed against the door, spraying damson-coloured splodges over her nightshirt, in her hair and down her legs.
‘Oh God ... oh hell ... you bitch.’ Stepping back in cautiously, she landed on a sliver of broken glass. It didn’t improve her temper. ‘You ungrateful cow.’
‘Ungrateful! What have I got to be grateful about?’
‘I left the light on for you, didn’t I? So you wouldn’t wake up and find it all creepy and dark. And I didn’t tie your hands or gag you or anything.’
‘You have, however, trussed me up and bolted me in the cellar.’
‘Yes ... well ... I had to do that. I have to think. And you can damn well stay shut up in here whilst I do it!’
She banged the door shut and turned the locks.
There wasn’t much doubt in my mind as to what she’d eventually decide. It wasn’t going to be as easy as an impersonal hit-and-run cocooned in a metal cage travelling at sixty miles an hour. Nor was she going to be able to hide behind a burst of incandescent rage that would conveniently dull the guilt receptors until it was all over. This time, when she killed, she was going to have to do it in cold blood. Mine.
CHAPTER 39
I rationed the remaining bottle of water. If Amelia stayed mad about my abortive escape attempt and didn’t bring down any more supplies, it might have to last me until Sunday night.
By then she was going to have to make up her mind - one way or the other. School started again Monday, which meant Patrick and his dad would be returning home and I’d have to be gone.
Since she hadn’t mentioned Bone at all, I assumed she wasn’t around. Perhaps she’d already gone back to St Aggie’s after the half-term.
Movement was tricky. It meant leaning weight on the links, and the pressure was causing bruising and scraped skin all over my legs. I kept going anyway, in order to stop the muscles and circulation seizing up on me. I wished now I’d put the suit trousers on; at least they’d have provided some padding.
Amelia had overlooked one of the wine tools. It had tumbled under the racks; I bent and straightened it as best I could and continued to jiggle at that blessed lock. Because the amount of bend in my legs was restricted and the padlock was fastened behind the ankles, it meant hitching over from the waist and working with my arms at full stretch.
Before long every muscle in my back, shoulders and fingers was aching and screaming out to be left in peace. Unfortunately, if I didn’t get the damn lock open, they were going to get their wish. In my heart, I knew it was hopeless anyway. There was no way I could pick a lock with a twisted scrap of metal unless the lock happened to be defective.
I was frightened, because the more I thought about it, the more I realised how isolated my life was. Who was going to notice I was missing? I didn’t live with anyone; I was nobody’s ‘significant other’; I never phoned home; I had no landlord to worry about unpaid rent.
My work routine could best be described as fluid; I came and went as I pleased. How long would it take before it occurred to Vetch or Janice that they hadn’t seen me recently?
And if it did, would they bother to do anything about it? I’d told Jan I was hitting the party scene this weekend. In fact I’d implied I could be waking up in China with a stonking great hangover come Monday. It wasn’t the sort of thing a normal person would take seriously; but with Jan - who knows?
The person most likely to miss me was Annie - who was away in the West Country and not due back until the middle of next week.
I had visions of ending up like one of those cases in the papers: pensioners boarded up in empty flats for years; dusty bags of bone and rotting clothes that fell apart when someone finally broke in to disconnect the gas supply.
Only in my case, I’d be disintegrating in some landfill site or reservoir, I reckoned.
And in a few months’ time someone - Shane, perhaps - would remark: ‘Anyone seen Smithie recently? Must be ... what ... ten, twelve weeks since she scrounged a fry-up off me.’
I tried to be positive. I’d left the Kristen Keats file on the table in my flat. When someone eventually got around to breaking in to find me, that would surely point them in the right direction. At least my murderess wouldn’t go undetected.
My psyche pointed out that if this was my idea of positive, it would hate to run into my negative viewpoint in a dark alley.
I tried another track. Amelia had left the light on despite my assault; which showed she wasn’t all bad. And perhaps when she sat down upstairs and thought about killing someone ... really thought about it ... she’d decide it just wasn’t on this time.
There were other options. She could make a run for it. Close off those unit trusts and whatever and move abroad. Change her name. Get a new life.
No, I didn’t buy it either. Why bother? Getting rid of me was the easiest option.
How would she do it? A gun would be fastest and safest for her; but I hadn’t seen a gun cupboard anywhere in this house. The proverbial blunt instrument or sharp knife seemed likeliest.
‘Course, she’d need time to get things tidied up,’ I informed that stubbo
rn padlock through gritted teeth. ‘So she couldn’t wait until the last minute.’
I wished I’d asked her to be a bit more specific about Stephen and Patrick’s return time. Were they coming back early or late Sunday?
My fingers were too numb to hold the probe again. I nibbled on one of the cereal bars and gave myself a quick talking-to. There was no way some blonde middle-aged bimbette was finishing me off. When she came back, I’d smash the hell out of her and escape. It was simple.
Lying flat on my back, I practised raising my legs and thumping them out more or less where I judged Amelia’s stomach would be. After a couple of tries I was exhausted. The sheer weight of the chain made it a virtual non-starter.
Breathing deeply, I waited for my thundering heart to return to normal rhythm. I was listening to the blood rushing through my ears, and the sounds of activity outside took a while to filter in.
I listened. There it was again. Something falling. And then something else. Different weights and different heights. I had to guess someone was searching amongst the cellar junk. It could have been Amelia, of course. Maybe she was trying to remember where she’d last seen the axe.
There was only one way to find out. Taking a deep breath, I yelled for help.
The door opened a few seconds later. Struggling into a sitting position, I found myself facing Bone.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘An aerobic workout. Get me undone here, eh? Then we’ll talk.’
‘How?’ She stepped delicately over the wet floor and peered at the chains. ‘Where’s the key?’
‘You tell me. Your mother’s probably got it.’
‘Mummy? What’s she got to do with it?’
‘Well, what do you think I’m doing down here? Some kind of weird bondage ritual with the cellar rats? Look, just find the key, will you. Is your mother upstairs?’
Bone shrugged. She was back in the micro Lycra skirt and top today, with over-the-knee leather boots. ‘No one’s around. I let myself in.’
She twisted the padlock and tried to disengage the bar - I gave an involuntary kick as the pain from my chafed and blistered skin shot up my leg.
‘Sorry.’ Bone sat back on the heels of her boots. ‘But I don’t understand. I mean ... why?’
‘Find the key first. Or something to file through these links if you can’t. Has your dad got a toolbox?’
‘That’s a pretty sexist remark, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t I have a toolbox? Or Gran.’
‘Fine ... whoever’s toolbox ... I’m not proud. Just get me something to cut with, OK?’
‘Yes, all right. Hang on.’
She left the door open. I lay back savouring the moment. A view of the cellar; a nibble of my breakfast apple; imminent freedom. Paradise.
I selected a couple of bottles that looked as if they’d be seriously expensive and put them carefully to one side. Stephen owed me a bonus after last night.
‘Here. Will this do?’
It was a rasp, not much bigger than a nail file, but I wasn’t in a position to be fussy. I started on a reachable link. They were thinner than the padlock and I figured it would take me less time to saw through one.
‘Listen, while I’m doing this, can you call the police?’
‘What for?’
‘For! Bloody hell, Bone, your crackpot mother has just drugged me and locked me in the cellar all night. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Yes, but ... why?”
It seemed kinder not to tell her the whole story, so I temporised with: ‘She thought your dad and I were an item. But we’re not - honest. Now go make that call ... please.’
‘Mummy really did this? Because she thought you and Dad had had it off? Wow!’ She sat cross-legged beside me. ‘Do you think they’ll send her to prison?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
I saw the flicker of doubt pass over Bone’s face and recalled something her gran had said about the girl playing up because she loved her mother. I’d taken that as fond-granny-speak at the time. I should have realised Joan knew her granddaughter better than I did.
‘Probably not,’ I said quickly. ‘Especially if I keep my mouth shut.’
‘Would you?’
‘I’m easily bribeable,’ I said truthfully. And if the situation really had been a simple case of misplaced jealousy, I might have let them buy me off. But there was no way I was keeping quiet about Julie-Frances’ murder. Or Figgy’s hit-and-run, if it came to that. So the best plan was to get out of here before Amelia reappeared.
We heard the footsteps above at the same time. Instinctively we’d both glanced at the wine-store ceiling, as if we could see right through it. I was still craning upwards when Bone snatched the rasp from me.
‘What the ...’I lunged and grabbed her wrist.
She was half standing. Grabbing the wine rack for support, she brought her left boot down on my arm, broke free and backed out of my reach.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to talk to Mummy first.’ Her chest rose and fell under the Lycra. Shallow, frightened breaths. The streetwise chick was dissolving before my eyes into the not-yet-adult girl who still needed her mum.
‘Bone? I thought you were staying with your grandmother.’ Amelia had come down the cellar steps during our fight and was now standing in the doorway, dangling a set of car keys.
I’d forgotten about the motor. It must have been sitting outside on the verge where I’d left it all night. ‘Those are mine.’
‘What? Oh yes, I found your car. I’ve parked it around the back. Isn’t it a perfect heap? Why don’t you get it fixed?’
‘I just did.’
‘Really? Goodness.’
‘Mummy, did you really beat her up because she and Daddy were at it?’
‘I explained to Bone that this was all a misunderstanding,’ I said warningly. ‘About you thinking I was having an affair with your husband.’
It gave her a chance to go along with the story and pull back from the next step. After all, there was a witness now. Surely she had to back off.
Amelia reached over and adjusted one of Bone’s shoulder straps that had slipped sideways. It was the first intimate gesture I’d ever seen her make to either of her children. ‘I’m in the most awful mess, darling. I really don’t know what to do next.’
‘What kind of mess?’
‘Come upstairs. I’ll tell you.’
‘Hang on. What about me?’
‘You’ll just have to stay here. I’m sorry, but you do see I can’t let you go, don’t you?’
‘No, I bloody well ...’I choked back the rest of the angry shout as Amelia started to pull Bone out of the cellar and close the door. Desperately I yelled at the narrowing gap: ‘At least ring your grandmother. Tell her what’s happening here, Bone.’
I’ll admit I cried a bit. I was bruised, exhausted and scared. And after the brief rush of adrenaline generated by the hope of escape, I hit reality with an even harder thump this time round.
It didn’t seem possible that I could die like this. I started to make all sorts of bargains with God. If he let me out I’d remember to send cards for Mother’s Day in future. I’d stop being mad at my dad for believing those lies about me taking bribes when I was in the force. I’d put an effort into making friends and finding unmarried lovers. I’d place myself in the centre of a warm, loving circle who’d panic if I was twenty minutes late back from the supermarket.
I sipped the water and took small portions of the cereal bar every half an hour. By mid-afternoon they were both exhausted. I had to use the bucket again. The disinfectant couldn’t quite mask the scent of urine.
Moving my legs became harder and harder, and it was tempting to just lie down and forget it. Give up and go with the inevitable. I let my eyes close.
I woke up half propped against the cupboard; the metal cooling my cheek and the angle giving me a crook in my neck. Dry-mouthed again, I checked my little kingdom to see if anything had happened whilst I’d been out of it.
>
It hadn’t, of course. My prison was unchanged. I needed something to do to keep myself awake.
Amelia must have taken my bag, but I still had the invoice and Tally’s airline printout. I could tear them up and leave messages hidden amongst the bottles. Stephen would find them eventually. Perhaps Joan used the place as well. I had no pen, but I could prick my fingers ... they’d even be able to do a DNA match on the blood later to prove I’d written them.
Eagerly I thrust my hand into my jacket pocket. It was empty. They were all empty. Amelia had taken the papers whilst I was out cold.
I ran through every swear word I knew at the top of my voice, then took up the improvised lock-pick and scratched at the inside of the cupboard door. In wavy letters I put my name, the current date and added: ‘Amelia B. killed me’.
This wasn’t such a great plan either, I decided. It sounded like I was accepting the inevitable. Bending full stretch again and ignoring the protesting agony of straining back muscles, I jammed the lock-pick in the padlock and turned.
The locking bar clicked open.
I couldn’t believe it. I froze for a moment, leaning back against the cupboard and staring at that gap. All I needed to do was push a link off and I was free.
The padlock came away easily but I made the mistake of trying to brace my legs against the chain and release it that way. It parted a few millimetres. Just enough to let me know how numb and cramped my limbs had become.
The door handle clicked, sending me diving forward in a frantic effort to untwist the links.
I was slow, my fingers dropping the heavy chain.
I’d expected Amelia. But it was Bone who burst through and dived on me, using her arms to pinion my legs down again.
‘Mummy! Hurry.’
I grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, chopping up under her nose with my other hand. She bit me - hard.
Amelia had flung herself down on the floor and was struggling to get the padlock back in place. It clicked closed a darn sight easier than it had opened.
With a final frustrated kick, which failed to land, I gave up and squirmed up into a sitting position again.