by Mel Sherratt
SHE DID IT
MEL SHERRATT
Copyright © Mel Sherratt 2017
The right of Mel Sherratt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved in all media.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design by inspiredcoverdesigns.com
Cover design copyright © Mel Sherratt
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TODAY
THE INTERVIEW
THE COFFEE SHOP
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE COFFEE SHOP
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE COFFEE SHOP
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE COFFEE SHOP
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
THE COFFEE SHOP
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
TWO WEEKS LATER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
OTHER BOOKS BY MEL SHERRATT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
TODAY
I hardly dare open my eyes but I must. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here. An hour, perhaps? Two hours? A minute? Why is my watch broken?
I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the wall. My knees pulled to my chest, my hands wrapped around them. The kitchen tiles are cold on my feet. A metallic smell is in the air.
There is a sound to the silence; it’s ringing in my ears. I can’t hear anything else. Not the traffic on the street below. Nor the noise of the neighbours arriving home after a hard day’s work. Nor a murmur or a groan from …
One, two, three. Come on! I can do this.
I lift my head and open my eyes. Sheer horror rushes through me and I force myself not to close them again.
It’s real.
It wasn’t a dream.
It wasn’t some bad trip.
I can’t believe there is so much blood.
A spasm in my stomach and I retch. Please, no. Don’t let me be sick. I can’t leave any trace of me behind, not even that. It could be vital evidence against me.
I hold my right hand out. It shakes violently, more blood drying under my fingernails.
There are two wine glasses on the worktop. Should I wipe them clean, like they do in the TV shows? Remove all trace. But then again, I know that isn’t possible. I’m bound to miss something important.
To my right is a chair. It usually sits under a small pine table. My black dress is strewn across it, my heels beneath it, one fallen over on its side. Flashbacks of what I did come rushing at me.
I removed my dress to wash away the blood.
The urgency of the situation catches up with me. I slap my palm against my forehead. What am I going to do? I mean, I never intended this to happen, not now; not after everything we’ve been through.
It could have been so much better. But he ruined it. And now there will be no going back.
I open a cupboard, looking for detergent. I must clean the place up. Make it look like I wasn’t here and then get rid of the evidence.
As I race around, I do my best to ignore the body slumped in the opposite corner of the room.
THE INTERVIEW
Friday, 26 May
Tamara Parker-Brown sipped her coffee as she stood in the window of her flat. She was expecting Esther Smedley in ten minutes and, even though they had met briefly, she wanted to see her again. There was a lot to be learned from how a person walked. Shoulders held high while taking large strides might denote a confident person. Someone wiping sweaty palms and fidgeting with hair could come across as nervous. Doing a bit of both would seem to be natural, she assumed, and what she would most probably do.
Above the rooftops of the houses across from her, the trail of several aeroplanes criss-crossed a clear-blue sky. She sighed, wondering if today would bring a dash of rain, a hint of a thunderstorm; anything to take a break from the incessant heat. London was heading for its hottest May in decades. Even a drop in temperature to the twenties would be bliss instead of the early thirties of the past two weeks.
Tamara wished she didn’t have to have someone in her flat, but, in the same vein, knew she couldn’t afford the office prices of central London when she’d refused any more financial help from her family. Besides, living in Westminster was a bonus as it allowed her to be near everything. If she got the pitch, it would mean a walk rather than a tube journey, which was the cheaper option.
Ever since she had received a proof copy of Something’s Got to Give, she knew that Dulston Publishing was on to something. The book had such an interesting premise, told in alternative chapters from the kidnapper and victim, and was gruesome but voyeuristic. As soon as she had read the first chapter, she’d been hooked and had done nothing else that whole day and evening until she’d read it through to the end. Then she’d read it again, having been disappointed that she’d finished it so quickly.
Over the past week, she had interviewed several people, having finally decided that she couldn’t do everything single-handedly. She’d been nervous during the first few, but after a while she’d settled into it. She hadn’t expected to get through so many candidates though – all of them useless so far.
Unable to afford a recruitment
agency to sort out the wheat from the chaff, the choice of candidates hadn’t been ideal. Some of them didn’t seem to have ever worked in an office. One woman said she didn’t know how to type but could handwrite everything. Another said she could only work certain hours because she had a child at nursery and a sick mother, which would have been fine if Tamara had stated that the position was part-time.
There had been a man who had seemed a good candidate at first, but after careful consideration, she had thought it best to settle for a female, as they would be sharing a room in her home. She never voiced that, though, because she wasn’t sexist. She just hadn’t felt comfortable when he’d been there.
She spotted a woman with auburn hair walking along the pavement, and took a step back to hide behind the heavy embroidered curtains, while still keeping her in view. Tamara liked Esther already. She had chosen to wear a jacket despite the temperature already creeping up. Dressed in a plain, navy skirt suit and a white blouse, and small, block heels, her stride seemed confident. Under her arm was a small, zipped case.
As she drew closer, she watched the woman pause for a moment at the bottom of the steps, before taking a deep breath and bouncing up the stairs to the front door.
The intercom buzzed.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi, this is Esther Smedley. I have an interview at ten o’clock with Tamara Parker-Brown.’
‘Come on up. I’m on the first floor.’
Tamara buzzed her in and then went to the front door. In the hallway, she checked over her appearance one more time in the oak-framed mirror that had been passed down from her grandparents. She definitely hadn’t got long legs and a svelte figure, or hair to die for like her interviewee, but she was passable with her brown wave and stout motherly figure, even though she had yet to have children.
‘Wish me luck with this one, Grandma,’ she said to her reflection, before taking a deep breath and throwing open her front door.
‘Hello, again.’ She held out her hand as Esther appeared, trying not to be startled at how stunning she was up close.
‘Hi.’ Esther’s grip was firm and positive.
‘Come on in and we can get started.’ Tamara closed the door and showed her through to the sitting room, urging her to take a seat at the dining table, which until recently, had been piled high with paperwork, books, and work paraphernalia. It had taken her a good hour to remove everything from it so that she had somewhere to interview prospective people.
‘Would you like anything to drink?’ she asked, hoping not, as she wanted to get to the questions. ‘Tea, coffee, a glass of water?’
‘A glass of water would be lovely, thank you,’ Esther replied. ‘And would you mind awfully if I removed my jacket?’
‘Of course not.’ Tamara smiled. ‘No need for airs and graces at Parker-Brown PR.’
###
Esther Smedley placed her manicured hands on the table and clasped them together while she answered the questions Tamara threw at her. She’d had plenty of practice during role-play in the adult education classes she’d been made to attend.
Yes, she was reliable, punctual and keen to learn. Yes, she was able to work on her own initiative as well as being an avid team player. Of course she was a good organiser and had excellent project management skills. Blah, blah, blah.
Customer service was of great importance to her. No, she didn’t have experience in everything required, but she was a fast learner and always open to constructive criticism if it helped her to become a better employee. Yawn, yawn, yawn.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Tamara scanned the piece of paper in front of her. From where she was sitting, Esther could tell it was a list of things she needed to pass muster. She hoped she’d ticked enough of the boxes to satisfy the woman.
‘Do you have your references to hand?’ Tamara asked.
‘Yes.’ Esther unzipped the leather folder she’d placed on the table beside her and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘I also have some examples of my work that I’d like to show you.’
She could see excitement in Tamara’s eyes as she perused the rest of the paperwork. Of course, there wasn’t anything there that Esther had done. All the samples had been sourced from the Internet.
While Tamara listened, Esther talked in great detail about the experience she had gained working on several large-scale media campaigns. None of that was true either, but it made her sound so interesting that she almost wished it wasn’t a pack of lies.
‘These are very impressive,’ Tamara said, after looking through the first few.
‘Thank you!’ Esther smiled widely.
Tamara read the fake references next. Esther sat and twiddled her thumbs before moving her hands out of view. She didn’t want it to seem as if she was nervous. It was more that she was irritated the interview was taking so long.
Finally, Tamara looked up again. ‘You’d be able to start immediately, you say?’
‘Yes.’ Esther nodded. ‘The reason I am out of work at the moment is because I’ve moved areas. I’ve enjoyed working on small campaigns so much that I wanted to expand my knowledge. I’m sure it will be of great value to me if I’m continually around central London. The rent for my flat is extremely high but I feel it will be worth it.’
‘And it isn’t far on the District line from Earl’s Court to Victoria.’
‘It’s about twenty minutes. Very handy for early starts and late evenings.’ Esther smiled shyly.
When Tamara smiled back at her, she knew she had won her over.
‘I’m very impressed with what I’ve seen so far.’ Tamara leaned forward and gave the paperwork back to her. ‘I think we might get along well together. Would you like to do a month’s trial for me?’
Esther left the flat, her steps light as she made her way back to Victoria Street. She glanced up at the window to see Tamara watching her. She smiled and waved. When the wave was returned, she laughed to herself as she walked away.
Well, that had been easier than she’d imagined. Of course, Parker-Brown was a means to an end, but Esther hadn’t expected her to bow down so easily. If she had someone working in her home, she would check everything.
Maybe Parker-Brown would do that now she had left. Only the next few days would tell. If she didn’t get a phone call, or an email to discuss things further, or to tell her the decision had been overturned, she was home and dry.
Esther had been watching Dulston Publishing for some years now. She had a Google alert set up for whenever a mention of Jack Maitland’s name came online too. She’d come to London in the hope of getting a job in publishing but everyone wanted references or previous experience and she had neither. Waitressing had been her next option and a few cash in hand gigs, where the pay was appallingly low, had got her to a few publishing events handing out champagne and canapés.
She’d done this for two months, and was wondering if she needed to change tactics when she’d overheard Tamara talking about Dulston Publishing and some of the prospective employees she had interviewed with no joy.
Not wanting to miss out on a golden opportunity, she had approached Tamara as she was leaving, and blagged her way to an interview. She’d been disappointed that Dulston Publishing themselves hadn’t been hiring directly, but this had been the next best thing. A bit of mundane day-to-day working would be worth it to get closer to him, and what better way to utilise the skills she had learned recently.
And Parker-Brown wouldn’t suspect a thing because of her acting skills. That was the beauty of her act – she could fool people, make them feel at ease with her, trust her. It was the same with all the men she’d fleeced over the years. One-night stands were great because she could keep up the pretence enough for that. Once she’d left with their cash and whatever she could lay her hands on to sell, then she could return to her usual self.
No one ever got to see the real person underneath the delightful persona she had created.
Well, not unless she wanted them to.
THE
COFFEE SHOP
Today
Esther pushed on the door and stepped into the coffee shop. The large and bright establishment was full to bursting, and – the more she thought about it – probably not the right place for this meeting. It seemed noisier inside than it had from outside on the street.
She joined the queue of people waiting to be served behind the mum with a tiny baby in a sling and a toddler in a pushchair, two elderly women chatting about the weather, and a woman holding up a mirror while applying mascara to curled lashes.
Esther stared at each in turn, wondering if any of them were content. In the frame of mind she was in right now, it was best to concentrate on others. Everyone would be happier than her considering how her life had gone horribly wrong again during the past few weeks.
Sometimes she wondered whether it was worth continuing with it. Would anyone even care if she had died rather than him?
She shuffled forward in the queue as the elderly women in front moved down the counter to wait for their drinks. The sounds of the morning rush did nothing to soothe her nerves. Neither did the man behind the till when he threw her a warm smile. Perhaps she should have chosen somewhere she wasn’t known.
‘Hi, Esther,’ the barista said in a thick Irish accent, his dark, wavy hair held back underneath a baseball cap. ‘Your usual today?’
‘A cappuccino, please, Aiden.’
Esther had been a regular there for four months, since she had first moved to Earl’s Court. Rumour had it that the late Freddie Mercury had lived less than a five-minute walk away, but she bet he hadn’t had to put up with the squalor of the bedsit she had rented.
She wasn’t sure if she would have been able to stick around even if things had been different. It was way too busy, and there were far too many nosy people wanting to see what she was getting up to for her liking. Still, it was a roof over her head, which was marginally better than where she had been sleeping before she had arrived.
Aiden had served her with a cappuccino on that first day and she had sunk into a chair on the back wall, people-watching while she yet again contemplated her future. She often came for breakfast now. Anything beat cooking in her grimy excuse for a kitchen. She’d been lucky not to catch food poisoning from the decades-old cooker, and the fridge was a death trap. The light in the freezer compartment flickered on and off at an alarming rate every time she opened the door.