by Amanda James
‘It had better bloody be.’ Dan sighs and goes outside to wait for the builders. He’s here early as they want to discuss the problem with the swimming pool tiles or something. I couldn’t concentrate on what he was waffling on about when he arrived an hour ago, and don’t really care, because after days of being on tenterhooks, the opportunity I’ve been waiting for has at last presented itself. On the back of the chair is Dan’s jacket, and in that jacket are his keys. Thank you, God.
I saw Dan drop them in his pocket when he took the jacket off to have breakfast. Up until now he’s been busy in the day, tying up loose ends before the wedding, and so only arrives here in the evening, or we’ve gone out. There’s no way I could have taken them and done what I had to before he realised they’d gone. Today is the day.
I dry my hands on a tea towel and watch through the window as the builders’ van pulls up outside. Dan goes to meet it and three men get out, shake his hand and then from the back door I watch them gather around the hole in the ground which will be the new pool. One of them hands out bits of paper to Dan and they look at them. Come on, Sam – do it. Do it now!
Back in the kitchen, I lift the keys from his pocket, feel the cold weight of them in my hand and swallow down panic, but it comes up again bringing nausea with it. I almost put the keys back as the tension of the last week or so nearly gets the better of me, but I have no choice. I owe it to Penny. A dull chink as I toss the keys into my bag, then I’m off out the back door, stomach churning, I feel like I’m watching the scene from the wings.
‘Hi there.’ I give a quick wave to the builders. To Dan I say, ‘Just popping to the shops, love. I won’t be long. I’ll get a nice cake and some scones, so you can all have them with a cuppa when I get back.’
The men look puzzled and Dan frowns. ‘Not sure the guys will be here that long.’ He looks at the men quizzically.
‘’Fraid not, much as we’d like cake and tea,’ the oldest of the group says with a smile, ‘but we’ve another job on – half an hour here should sort it.’
‘Oh? Okay, never mind perhaps another time,’ I say. The men nod and smile, and I hurry away before Dan can ask me anything.
Half an hour. Damn! That’s going to be tight, but it’ll have to be enough. I jump in my car and set off like a racing driver into town.
Forty-five minutes and Dan looks like a man demented. His normally neat spiked hair is ruffled every which way, his jacket’s on the kitchen floor in a heap and he’s stalking the living room turning up cushions, tossing throws and panting like an old bull. Upon seeing me, he says, panic in his voice, ‘Sam, did you take my keys by mistake when you went out?’
Shit, he looks ready to do murder. Thank God I had a flash of inspiration while I was out. My face assumes a rehearsed hurt expression. I nod and perch on the edge of the sofa arm. ‘Yes. I was going to surprise you later with it, just slip them back into your pocket, but I got back too late and you’ve missed them already.’
Dan scrubs his hair with a fist, looks at me like I’m nuts. ‘What the hell are you talking about? You do have my keys?’
‘Yep.’ I paint on a triumphant smile and pull the keys from my bag, toss them to him.
He catches them, furrows his brow some more and shakes his head at me. ‘I don’t understand.’
My stretchy smile begins to ache but I keep it up. ‘How many keys did you have this morning?’
Dan spreads his hands and the keys clink together, gives me a quizzical stare. ‘I don’t know, five or six?’
He’s not even looked at the keys. ‘You had five. Now you have seven. Look at them.’
He sits on the opposite arm of the sofa, lifts the keys, fingers each of the new ones. ‘One’s just a piece of metal shaped like a heart key – the other’s a real key – but to what?’ His frown’s gone now, and he looks more settled, relieved. The wild look’s gone from his eyes. Good.
‘The heart key speaks for itself, it’s the key to my heart.’ My voice wavers on the word ‘heart’ as emotion threatens. How I wish it could all be different, love can’t just be turned off like a tap, can it? Love’s dying because of what he is – but not quite dead yet, it seems. ‘The other is the key to this house, my darling.’
‘Aw, hon.’ Dan kisses the heart key and comes over for a hug. ‘How sweet of you – and sorry to spoil the surprise.’
‘That’s okay.’ I pat his back and sigh. ‘I’ve been trying to figure a way of taking the bloody things for ages without you knowing and this morning was the only opportunity. Shame I caused you to panic because I was late back.’
‘I panicked because I had no clue what the hell I did with them. I knew I had them when I arrived because my car key fob is on there and I drove here. After the builders had gone, I went on the balcony and leaned on the railing for a bit looking at the view. I was just going to fly down to the bloody beach to see if I’d dropped them over somehow, even though I couldn’t remember having them in my hand,’ Dan says and laughs into my hair.
‘That’s because I had them in my bag.’ I laugh too, move away, stand up and gesture to my shopping bag. ‘I got some cake and scones anyway. Fancy some with a coffee?’
‘Love some.’ As I’m walking to the kitchen, he says, ‘I don’t get why you needed to take my bunch of keys to the key cutter though. Why couldn’t you have the new keys cut while leaving my keys here? Then slipped the new ones on later?’
Took a while for that thought to drop, didn’t it, Dan? I’m ready for it though.
Over my shoulder, I say, ‘Because I’ve never been able to undo bloody keys from a fob, or put them on. My nails are like paper. Adam always had to do it for me. So I had to take your keys so the guy in the shop could put the new ones on. Then I was going to present the keys as a big surprise. Never mind. All’s well that ends well.’
The handful of holiday cottages huddle together on the side of the hill as if they’re worried about falling into the surf at Fistral beach. I drive into the scrap of a car park behind the houses and turn off the engine, my heart thumping harder in my chest than the waves against the rocks to my right. It’s a wonder I’ve been able to drive in the state I’m in and have been since I waved Dan off to Sheffield a couple of hours ago.
A week’s flown by since the key cutting, and I’ve waited for this day like a condemned prisoner waits for reprieve. Before yesterday I was worried that there’d be none, and I’d have to come here while Dan was still in Cornwall, wait until he was busy with something and hope for the best. But then there was a call from his partner up north and he decided to go up there in person to sort something out to do with the business. He wasn’t going to at first – said he’d manage it from here until I said I had stuff to do – secret wedding stuff, and could do with him out from under my feet. Thankfully he bought it.
Now I’m here though, I can hardly prize my hands from the steering wheel. What if by some crazy chance he’s forgotten something and comes back while I’m inside? How will I explain it? I remind myself there’s a half-baked idea ready in my arsenal to say I was getting his shirt size as I didn’t know it… I wanted to buy him some new ones. Another “surprise”. I watch my fingers grow white at the knuckles and force myself to relax their grip. Over and over, I repeat in my head – Dan’s on his way to Sheffield, won’t be back until tomorrow. You can do this.
I pull the cords of my hoodie tight under my chin, jam sunglasses on my face and get out of the car. Then I take a deep breath, fold my fingers round the cool metal of the new key I had cut from his key ring, and make a dash for the front door of Dan’s cottage.
30
I shut the door behind me after sticking my head out and having a quick check in the car park to ensure nobody saw me come in. Then I take off my sunglasses and push back the hood. My God. At least Dan wasn’t lying about the unholy mess in here, but I know it’s not the main reason he’s always put me off when I’ve asked to see the place. I pull on surgical gloves and start to explore. Clothes strewn on th
e sofa, his mostly, but some of Penny’s in bags. Pizza boxes, some containing the remains of pizza on the floor and coffee table. Empty beer cans crushed and discarded next to the sink, a dishwasher full of clean but unloaded crockery and toast crumbs scattered across a chopping board, the work surface and over the floor under it.
The bathroom is a little better, but the towels could do with a wash, and the toilet is disgusting. I hurry out into the corridor and push open a door which turns out to be a small and neat bedroom. This must be the spare, as the bed’s not been slept in by the look of it and there’s just a little chest of drawers under the window. I open the drawers – empty. Next door is the master bedroom and there’s so much mess in here it’s hard to see the floor. Damp towels, dirty socks, pants, shirts. Why is he living like this? He’s always neatly presented and clean – I couldn’t have coped if he wasn’t.
Flinging open the wardrobe, I find clean clothes, mostly suits, shirts and ties hanging in colour order. A few drawers to the left of the hangers have clean towels, socks and pants. Bloody hell. It’s as if there’s two halves of his living area: one that’s a complete mess, one that’s clean – functional. A bit like his brain, I imagine. Though I’m not really sure how a murderer’s brain looks. I check myself. I have no proof… yet. The mess is going to make my task to find evidence even harder. I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. I don’t know what I’m looking for, or even where to begin.
About to shut the wardrobe door again, my eye is taken to a shoe rack at the back of the wardrobe. The shoes on it are all clean and shiny, but at the end of the rack is a plush red velvet drawstring bag. I reach in and pull it out to get a better look. It’s soft and quite light, and it has a gold Harrods logo across it, so I’m betting there’s something important in there. I pull open the drawstrings and ease out the folded garment inside. I shake it loose and then drop it to the floor as if it’s scalded me.
It’s a green hoodie spattered with mud.
I lean my forehead against the cool wall, calm myself. This is what I’ve been looking for, but it brings me no comfort. There’s a tiny illogical part of my brain that’s been hoping that I have it all wrong about Dan. But this hoodie says I don’t. I don’t, and there must be other stuff. Stuff to do with Penny.
Half an hour of picking up mess, searching under it and putting it back carefully where I found it again hasn’t turned up anything else. The fridge? No. Nothing apart from cheese, eggs and milk. Freezer – pizza and bread. Think, Sam.
I go back to the bathroom – reluctantly because of the state it was in, but I need to do a thorough search, I won’t get this chance again. With my trainer I flick the lid down on the toilet and gingerly open the cistern. Nope, nothing hidden under the water wrapped in plastic like you see on TV dramas. How about the cupboard under the sink? A toilet roll, a bar of soap and some razors.
There’s a dressing gown hanging on the back of the door – nothing in the pockets. Nothing in the shower. I look in the bathroom mirror over the sink at my frustrated expression and note that the mirror is gleaming, pristine. Then I note that it isn’t just a mirror, it’s a very slim cabinet. No handle or knob though, but it definitely has a recess. Carefully, I feel around the edges with my gloved hands, then remember a cabinet I once saw in a showroom when Adam and I were looking for a new bathroom suite. Perhaps this is the same kind. I press the bottom right-hand corner of the mirror and it swings open.
My heart in my mouth, I look past a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush to an array of tablet packets placed in a precise line on the top ledge. My hand reaches up and I pluck out the first one with trembling fingers. The packet’s white with green edging… I turn it over in my hands and read what’s written across it in red marker pen – I will beat you!
My legs feel like I’ve borrowed them from a drunk and I slump down on the edge of the bath, the tablets clutched in my hand. I’ve seen this packet before, this handwriting. I wrote it what seems like a hundred years ago. These antidepressants are mine. The ones that went missing from my cabinet, the ones that I thought I’d somehow used to drug Penny, the ones that were found in her system. The ones that Dan stole and administered… to make it look like I’d something to do with her death.
Forcing myself to focus, I stand up and look on the shelf again. There are some more tablets of the same type. New packets – how did he get them? Easy, he’d just have gone to the doctor’s – upset after Penny’s “suicide”. I read the printed name and address on the front – yes, Dan’s. What worries me most is why he’s got more. Is he planning on doing the same thing to me if I prove hard to control at some point?
Next and last on the shelf is a different packet. I take it out and see that they’re Diazepam… used to be known as Valium. I rack my brains – no, Valium weren’t found in Penny’s system, but there’s some gone out of the packet. The obvious slams into my consciousness like a wrecking ball and nausea rolls. I sit, clutch the side of the bath, try to keep calm but my stomach won’t wait, and I lurch for the toilet – vomit. The state of the bowl makes things worse and for some time I’m unable to do anything – helpless, shaking.
Eventually I’m strong enough to stand and splash my face with water. The last time I felt like this was the morning Penny was found. I snatch a length of toilet roll, dab my face and mouth. Valium. He must have put Diazepam in my drink – I was nauseous, sick in the sink and Helena had to put me to bed at nine. He’d put Diazepam in my drink, why? So I didn’t wake and disturb Penny’s murder. That’s why I felt so rough the morning after… couldn’t remember anything. I remember reading an article about Diazepam, some sickos use it as a date rape drug. Too much can put you in a coma when mixed with alcohol.
Fury wells up from my gut and I hurl the packet at the wall. The bastard! Playing with my life like that!
I rush out of the bathroom, fling open the back door and look down the steep incline towards the sea – inhale big gulps of ozone to steady myself.
After a few minutes, I’m feeling stronger. I conclude that my suppositions when I wrote the question and answer section at the hotel a few weeks back had been absolutely right. Dan had wanted everyone to suspect me. Even my family. Even me. That’s why he told me my hair was wet that morning, took my tablets to ramp it up – made me vulnerable, frightened – more likely to rely on him. He was the only one who truly cared, would do anything – wrote a suicide note to set me free. My constant, my hero. It would only be a matter of time before I fell for him. Before he won me back – triumphed.
Any trace of guilt I might have harboured in the dark recesses of my heart has now been released, swept away on a breeze out to the blue horizon. Because all this time it had been him. Dan. Dan had attempted to kill Alison and had actually killed his wife. No more ifs or buts, I had his admission on that gin-soaked night – now I have the hard evidence. This is what I came here searching for and I have it. Dan was enough like a psychopath to keep his reminders, his mementos. My hunch has paid off and now I can take it to the police. The hoodie and the tablets.
Back in the bathroom, I check to see everything is as it should be and thump the cabinet shut a bit too hard. There’s a shuffling sound and then I see the corner of a little red book sticking out between the cabinet and the wall. I carefully pluck it out – looks like a notebook. I open it. As I read, a prickling sensation runs down both arms and up my back and a weight of gloom settles in my stomach. My legs won’t hold me, and I slump to the floor still reading. Just two little entries but their content is massive. Massive and terrifying because they’re written in a hand that I recognise. Mine…
I read them again, too numb to do anything else:
Penny, oh God… it’s so weird to think you aren’t here any more. Just when I thought we were getting back on track… but then you did kind of ask for it. Ever the doormat, you just allowed yourself to slip away – never put up a fight. You never did put up a fight, even when it mattered, I remember…
It’s so sad, because
when I think about it – you were a bit of a non-person. You pretended to be the life and soul, without much of either really. A sad spineless cow that owed everything to her husband. It was as if you sucked everything of any value from him like a leech. A big, FAT leech. You stayed close, basking in his glory, hoping that some of his personality would seep into you and become yours. Make you interesting to know. Luckily, he had enough charisma and sparkle to share – but it really didn’t make an awful lot of difference in the grand scheme of things, did it? You wore his reflected glory like cheap Christmas baubles on a cut-price tree.
And now you’re dead and gone. Dead and gone with hardly a mark to show where you’ve been. No children to carry on your memory, or your line. Just as well. You were a one-off. It could have all been so different if you hadn’t opened your legs all those years ago. Your husband would have been with the love of his life, and you wouldn’t be dead. But you are, and that’s down to you. You brought it on yourself without a thought for your poor husband. What on earth will he do without you? Who will he go to for comfort?
Don’t trouble yourself too much though… I expect he has a few ideas about that.
And the next:
Alison’s a jammy bitch. Anybody else would have plummeted quietly to their death but no. Not her. She deserved to die almost as much as Penny, but she miraculously survived. How does she get off trying to break up a beautiful and loving relationship? A relationship she could never aspire to because she’s a conniving spiteful little troll. The answer is obvious. She was jealous and thought she could take what was rightfully someone else’s. When she found she couldn’t, she set out to try to destroy it. Alison comes across as a larger-than-life character, a femme fatale gathering men like moths to a flame. But she’s just a sad bitch whose husband left her for someone else. Is there any wonder?