Dying To See You: a dark and deadly psychological thriller

by Kerena Swan

  ‘How am I supposed to remember that?’ No, he shouldn’t sound aggressive. He needs to keep the police on side. ‘Sorry. Does anyone remember what they were doing two weeks ago?’ His mind is clearing. ‘I keep an Outlook calendar at work so that will tell me what I was doing during the day. As for the evening, I might have been at home or I might have been at the gym.’ Thursday the thirteenth. This must be about Lydia.

  He doesn’t mention Ivy. He doesn’t want to walk into a snare if he can help it.

  ‘How often did you visit your grandmother?’

  Damn. ‘A couple of times a week. No set pattern to it.’

  ‘Where were you on Saturday the fifteenth of October in the afternoon?’

  ‘That’s easier to answer. I always go to the gym on Saturday afternoons. I’m sure they’ll have a record of my attendance as we have to swipe a card to get in. They check our photo, as well.’

  ‘What’s the name of this gym?’

  Max tells them, and an exchange of gestures suggests one of the officers is being told to go and verify the alibi.

  ‘PC Thomas is leaving the room,’ The other reports.

  ‘There’s a girl that often follows me about.’ Max says. ‘I don’t know her name, but I can probably find out. I’m sure she’ll be able to confirm I was there.’

  ‘When did you last see the carer, Lydia Santinella?’ The policeman slides a photo across the desk. It shows a pretty girl with long, dark hair smiling at him and Max’s heart twists with guilt and sadness.

  ‘She visited my nan at lunchtime on the day before she went missing, I think.’

  ‘How do you know which day she went missing?’

  He swallows a couple of times and his top lip feels damp. ‘Someone told me.’

  ‘When the police visited your house yesterday to inform you of your grandmother’s death they saw Sophie Matthews there. Are you having an intimate relationship with her?’

  Shit. He doesn’t want Sophie dragged into this. ‘We’re just friends. I think I like her more than she likes me.’

  The policeman stares at him and doesn’t speak for a full minute. Max can’t hold his gaze and can’t sit still either. They might as well hammer his hand to the table and pull his nails out one at a time. He needs to get out. He needs to breathe.

  ‘I’d like to leave now, please.’

  The policeman looks disappointed, but Max knows he will have to be formally arrested in order to be detained. The officer is about to speak when the door opens, and his colleague re-enters the room holding a sheet of paper. Max can see dates and times on a printout from the gym. The interviewer runs his fingers down the list of dates and stops at the fifteenth of October. It’s on there. Max tries to calculate how long he was at the gym and when his nan started to phone him. Is he covered? It was at least an hour before he answered her call.

  ‘Before you go, can you please tell me if you’ve seen this woman before?’

  Another photo slides across the table towards him. This woman is nowhere near as attractive, but she’s just as smiley. She wasn’t smiling the last time he saw her and buried her in the field. He tries to stop his hands shaking as he slides it back and says, ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Saunders. Please accept our condolences regarding your grandmother. We may need to call on you again with further questions.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He wants to bolt for the door but makes a conscious effort to steady his pace. As soon as he exits the building he sucks in cool, refreshing air then walks swiftly away, feeling his clammy skin grow chilled. It’s too late to go to Sophie’s now. The party will be over. He looks at his phone and sees numerous texts and missed calls. Oh God. She’ll think he doesn’t care about her and the children. He can’t call her. She’ll ask where he’s been and what would he say? The thought of her beautiful face turning distrustful, afraid and disgusted makes him want to weep,

  He sits in his car wondering where to go next. He drives aimlessly but within ten minutes he’s back home. He’ll just sit outside for a while. He needs to think. His priority now has to be to protect Sophie from possible scandal.

  Eventually he lets himself in the front door. He was right yesterday to buy the stuff he did. He now knows this is the only option left to him. It can’t be long before the police arrive with their further questions and after that they’ll arrest him.

  He fetches some of the items then sits at his dining table, staring at them. It’s agony. There has to be another way? But what? His face contorts and a howl emerges. He buries his head on his arms as tears spring to his eyes and his stomach convulses with anguish. Huge, painful sobs wrack his body and he barely notices a string of drool slipping from his wide-open mouth onto his lap. The neighbours can probably hear him but he doesn’t care.

  When the spasms in his muscles subside, he wipes his face with his sleeve. Decision time. He looks up the number of a courier company and orders a bike to come in half an hour. Then he picks up the pen again and writes the first letter, pausing occasionally to stop a tear dripping onto the paper. The second letter is easier to write and when he’s finished, he feels much better for it. By the time the courier arrives he’s washed his face and gulped coffee. A glance in the mirror shows his eyes are not too alarmingly bloodshot.

  After the courier has left Max collects the rest of his shopping and trudges slowly upstairs. He turns the bath taps on and pours a generous measure of honey bubble bath into the tub. His heart lifts a little as steam dampens his face and the wonderful perfume of Sophie fills his nostrils. While the tub is filling, he goes into the bedroom and scours the bed for any clue that Sophie has been here. Aaah, here’s one. A long, silky blonde hair. He entwines it around his finger and kisses it then puts it in the bath. Back downstairs, he takes champagne from the fridge then pops the cork and plucks a flute glass from the cupboard.

  He sits at the table sipping the effervescent liquid and thinking of the life he could have had with Sophie. God, how he wanted to take her on holiday to watch her in the sunshine with Mia, build her confidence to find an employer who would appreciate her, be beside her when Tilly marries, see her hold her first grandchild, grow old with her. But it can’t be. He was born to the wrong family and he is a foolish, pathetic excuse of a man; not worthy of someone as pure and breathtaking as Sophie. He must give her freedom to build a happy life for herself and her wonderful children. There is no place in it for him.

  He’s thought long and hard about this. Stripping down to his boxers he takes the bedside lamp off the side table, removes the bulb and plugs it into the extension lead and timer. He pushes the timer into the wall socket and sets it to activate in thirty minutes time then switch off ten minutes later. Thank God his house was pre-mid-1980’s or there would be a circuit breaker to cut the current. This will be quick and tidy and no one will be harmed on his discovery. Neither will there be blood to clear up or limbs to piece together.

  Max turns off the taps then opens his music app and connects his phone to the speaker. Beethoven’s ‘Emperor Piano Concerto’ fills the room with its haunting melody and carries him back to Sophie’s first visit. The music creates such a strong rhythm of longing that he catches his breath until it soothes him again. He gathers his photo of Sophie and the glass of champagne then places the lamp next to the bath. Sliding into the warm bubbles he slips down until his chin is at water level. He reaches out for the lamp, dripping water on the floor, then drops it into the bath. He picks up the photo and raises his glass.

  ‘I love you my dearest, darling Sophie. You have brought me more joy than I ever dreamed possible.’ He takes a long sip of champagne, the bubbles popping and tickling his nose. ‘I wish I was a different man. I wish I could love you the way I want to, but it isn’t meant to be. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ The words clog in his throat and he struggles to take control of himself. ‘Please forgive me.’

  Max puts his glass on the side of the bath and props up the photo. He slides his head
under the water, eyes open to see the image of Sophie, now distorted with the refraction of light but comfortingly looking as though she is moving and alive in the room with him. He stares, feeling all his love for her gathering into his chest and lifting his soul. He reaches for the photo and clasps it to his chest then waits for the timer to turn on the lamp sending two hundred and thirty volts through the water.

  72

  What’s going on? One minute her mum is doing up Lottie’s shoe, the next she’s bolting up the stairs. Is she ill?

  Tilly looks from Gwen to Grandma who appear equally surprised. It’s chaotic and crowded in the hallway; children clutching party bags and balloons, parents wrestling with coats and prizes, and Nutmeg weaving in and out excitedly.

  ‘Take the dog out, will you?’ her grandma asks grandad.

  She sounds a bit fraught. Tilly can’t wait for everyone to go either. She wants to check if her mum’s OK but feels a sense of responsibility in her absence to act the hostess and see everyone politely out of the door. Gwen stands stiffly in the kitchen doorway, her bag under her arm, looking up the stairs then at Tilly.

  ‘I think it’s best if I go now. I hope your mum’s all right. Perhaps she can call me later when she’s feeling better. Bye, Mia. I hope you’ve had a lovely party. There’s a present in the kitchen for you.’

  Mia pulls away from the little girl who’s trying to hug her. ‘A present?’ she turns back to her friend and wishes her a swift ‘bye’ then rushes to the kitchen.

  Tilly rolls her eyes at Gwen. ‘Kids have no manners these days, do they?’

  The humour is lost on the older woman. She’s a bit boring, Gwen. Still, it was kind of her to bring Mia a present. Will Gwen buy Tilly one when she’s sixteen? No, she mustn’t think like that or she’s no better than Mia.

  Shutting the door after the last guest has gone, Tilly leans on it in relief. She’s knackered. Kids are so bloody tiring. She’s never going to work in a nursery or school. How does her mum cope with two daughters and working full-time? Walking through to the kitchen, she sees her grandma tidying up and Mia tearing at bright pink paper. Pulling the gift from its wrapping, Mia stares at it in puzzlement.

  ‘It’s a knitting dolly. I’ll show you how to make a woolly snake later,’ their grandma says.

  ‘Mia, why don’t you make a picnic for Grandad and Nutmeg?’ Tilly suggests. She wants Mia occupied to prevent her going upstairs. Tilly needs to find out what’s wrong with Sophie without Mia interrupting. The distraction clearly works because Mia opens the back door and shouts.

  ‘Grandad, Nutmeg! Come in, I’m making us a picnic.’

  Tilly looks at her grandma. ‘I’ll help clear up soon. I’m just going to check on Mum.’

  She runs lightly up the stairs, but Sophie isn’t in the bathroom and her bedroom door is shut. Should Tilly go in? She listens outside then taps softly on the door.

  ‘Mum? Are you all right?’

  She doesn’t answer so Tilly opens the door. Sophie is lying curled in a ball, facing away from her. Tilly inches forward and places a hand gently on her shoulder.

  ‘Mum?’

  She’s relieved when she rolls over but the relief doesn’t last. Sophie looks a bit strange and scary. Sort of wild and unreachable. And even though she makes an effort to pull herself together, it’s as though she’s in shock from seeing something terrible.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you,’ she says, but Tilly’s still worried.

  Frightened, in fact. She’s never seen her look like this before.

  ‘I’ve got to go out,’ she says then. ‘Can you look after Mia if Grandma and Grandad need to go home?’

  ‘Go out where? Have you heard from Max?’

  ‘I just need to talk to him.’

  ‘Can’t you phone him instead? You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Please don’t argue, Tills. I need to do this.’

  Tilly is torn. Her mum looks fragile and Tilly doesn’t want to make her worse. ‘You won’t be long, will you?’

  Sophie doesn’t answer, instead she eases her feet to the floor and stands, swaying a little.

  ‘Can’t you at least wait a few minutes?’ Tilly urges,

  Sophie only steadies herself then walks to the door, picking up speed as she goes. ‘Back soon,’ she says.

  Shit. Max had started to seem all right but Tilly’s ready to hate him if he’s upset her. She goes back to the kitchen to announce, ‘Mum’s had to go out.’

  ‘Go out where?’ her grandma asks, echoing Tilly’s question.

  ‘Not sure but she said she’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Oh dear. I hope this Max isn’t giving her the run-around,’ she says. ‘It’s time she picked someone who won’t let her down.’

  Tilly was thinking the same thing, but she didn’t want anyone criticising her mum out loud and especially not making her sound like a weak, pathetic pushover. ‘It isn’t Mum’s fault she’s been treated badly. She’s standing up for herself more and more. She’s even going to track down Mia’s dad and make him start paying maintenance.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. It’s a disgrace he doesn’t help financially. I don’t suppose your father does either.’ Her grandma sniffs and lifts her chin.

  ‘Actually, he’s just given us some money and he’s written me a letter.’

  ‘Really?’

  Tilly almost smiles at the shock on her grandma’s face. ‘Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Only if you want me to.’

  Tilly turns to go and get it. On her way back, she pokes her head round the lounge door. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Grandad?’

  Despite having been defensive to her grandma she’ll feel better if her grandparents stay. She doesn’t fancy being on her own when her mum gets back. What if she’s really upset? Tilly’s not sure if she’ll cope with that.

  ‘He’s already had one,’ Mia says, ‘and a piece of pizza.’

  ‘I’m sure he can have another cup, can’t you, Grandad?’

  ‘Yes, please, and a piece of birthday cake, if I may.’

  He looks quite uncomfortable kneeling on the floor, poor man. Nutmeg is beside him looking crestfallen at having been given plastic cake. Maybe Tilly should find her a biscuit.

  Her grandma reads the letter while the kettle boils and Tilly watches her face in fascination as her eyebrows rise, then her lips purse, and finally she smiles. She must have just read the bit from Megan. She places the letter back on the table and holds Tilly’s gaze. ‘What did your mum say about it? Was she pleased?’

  ‘She didn’t say much.’ Sophie’s lukewarm response had been a huge disappointment. ‘I’m not sure she’s happy about it.’

  ‘She’s probably worried about you getting hurt. It can’t be easy for her.’ Her grandma takes the old teapot from the cupboard and rinses it with boiling water. ‘I wish she’d just meet a nice, straight-forward man. I thought Max might be the one.’

  ‘Me too.’ Tilly admits, glad that she seems sympathetic to her mum now.

  She wonders how long she’ll be. Should Tilly call her, just to check that she’s OK?

  The doorbell rings just as she reaches for her phone. Hopefully, she’s back already. Or maybe Max is here to explain why he missed the party.

  She rushes to the door, opens it then blinks in surprise at the sight of a man with a black crash helmet under his arm and a letter in his hand.

  ‘Sophie Matthews?’

  ‘That’s my mum.’ Tilly looks at the logo on the messenger bag that hangs from his shoulder. He’s a courier. Expensive. The letter has to be important but who’s sent it? Frustratingly, the handwriting on the envelope is unfamiliar.

  73

  My eyes feel strange; as though everything is too bright and harsh. Maybe it’s because I’ve come from a darkened room or maybe it’s because of the huge build-up of tears behind them. Tears that I’m trying desperately to hold back. I focus carefully on the road ahead and take the next turn towards
Max’s house.

  I’ve no doubt about it now. Ivy swung the paperweight at my head as I opened the Velcro on her slipper. But why? And what does it mean? Maybe it was triggered by a spur of the moment rage because she thought I was taking Max away from her. Then again, I can’t help wondering about Lydia. Could Ivy have tried to hurt her too and succeeded? I can’t see why she’d consider Lydia to be a threat but perhaps being a threat has nothing to do with it.

  I’m appalled that Ivy may have killed but I’m even more appalled by another thought. What did she do with Lydia’s body? How had she got it away?

  My thoughts keep returning to one person: Max. Who else would cover up for her? I remember his warm smiles and kindness, his gentle lovemaking and his patient good humour with my girls. Time and again my heart protests that it can’t be him, but time and again my mind leads me back to the same question: who else could it be? Is it really possible that the hands that caressed my body so intimately are the same hands that disposed of Lydia’s corpse? Bile rises in my throat and I pull swiftly into the gateway of a field. Opening the car door, I vomit onto the ground.

  Surely, I’ve got this wrong. I’ve got a head injury, after all. Maybe I’m confused and distorting reality. But I know that I haven’t got it wrong. The memory is clear and besides, the site of my injury matches perfectly with the arc of Ivy’s blow. I’d thought I must have twisted round in the fall, but that notion feels ridiculous now. I’m lucky I’m not dead.

  I shut the car door and rest my head on the steering wheel. If Max is involved I may be putting myself at risk in seeking him out. But no, covering up for Ivy is one thing. Hurting me is another. I can’t believe he’ll do it.

  Yet if I’ve learned anything it’s that I’m a terrible judge of character. I’ll seek him out because I need – I desperately need – to know the truth, but I’ll be cautious. Careful to ensure he doesn’t get between me and the door. I check the mirror and pull onto the road again. As I approach Max’s house I see his car on the drive. And another thought leaps into my mind. Ivy’s dead. Is it possible that Max killed her?