Killing The Girl

by Elizabeth Hill

  ***

  We invited Matthew for a meal last night. We celebrated that Schmidt had been arrested, amusing Matthew with our relief. That Perry had invited him surprised me. Later it became apparent that they had met last week at the Oaktree Inn. They had discussed their various commercial projects and had come up with a business idea. Last night’s meal was not a social occasion, as I had supposed, but an opportunity to debate the plan for a camping site. Yurts and glamping are the new ‘in’ thing. The pair’s enthusiastic chatter fizzed around our wineglasses: Perry had the land and Matthew had the business knowledge and spare cash. They brushed aside my negativity about their plans. Failing to influence them, but succeeding in irritating them, I retired early. They cannot start this partnership. Matthew will be here regularly, reminding me of our past and paths not taken. At least they didn’t talk about Frankie.

  ***

  The recent turmoil in my life is causing problems with my rationality. The past is a cruel torturer when one is forced to confront it in such a harsh way. Nowhere to run and hide. Nowhere to compartmentalise former mistakes and rationalise them as the innocent transgressions of a foolish girl. Breathing exercises fail as the overwhelming guilt of what my hands and my mind have accomplished allows me no reprieve. I feel that the girl inside has slipped into place with me.

  A memory floods back as I take one of my pills. Waves of dizziness come, as forgotten memories of Sarah’s betrayal flow like sewage. Unpleasant fumes stir in my nostrils. Sarah recorded everything in her diaries: trivialities written to validate her existence. Nothing much happened to her, yet she recorded the empty days of her life as if they were worthy of regard. There would be a record of Frankie’s meetings with Schmidt if she witnessed them. If she was capable of betraying me, then she was capable of recording that Frankie was less than perfect. She could do what I had been incapable of doing.

  Matthew will have those diaries and must be persuaded to hand them in. It’s doubtful that her parents would have destroyed them. They kept her room intact as a memorial despite the shame her suicide brought on them. It wasn’t general knowledge she that was pregnant, which saved them from total humiliation. Her diary for 1970 must be given to the police. It will assist my freedom and help atone for her infidelity with Frankie.

  Perry has become increasingly agitated. Late into the night, he talks on in a pitiful attempt to rewrite the history of Frankie’s demise. That he was forced to do it; that the terms of the trust weren’t a consideration. His regretful involvement and subsequent criminalisation are resulting in sleepless nights and an inability to have a satisfactory life. All his actions are misguided by some unknown feeling toward me that he cannot recount. Tiredness and regret for his stupidity are the reasons he lashes out. That we may be absolved from Frankie’s death does nothing to diminish his viciousness, and his controlling behaviour escalates.

  My thoughts to turn to Matthew.

  Matthew must be my new soulmate.

  The girl inside agrees.

  Chapter 60

  Monday, 27 June 2016

  The roads are a mess of traffic lights and one-way systems. Driving along the lane and then across the ring road to reach Matthew’s house takes all my determination. The journey must be made, as my need to see Matthew consumes me. There’s no reason for arriving at his house unannounced.

  ‘Oh. Carol. Hi. I wasn’t expecting you.’ Matthew looks annoyed.

  ‘Sorry for calling in but I was driving around and –’

  ‘No problem. Come in.’

  Matthew’s house is so like Perry’s that I shiver. The ‘cottage’ is a large detached five-bedroom house. He’s renting it until he can buy it. The owner is dying in a nursing home. With his death imminent, his children want to sell as soon as he draws his last breath. The callousness of their behaviour is shocking. Matthew takes the view that bricks and mortar shouldn’t hold sentimental value.

  A glimpse into the front living room shows that it’s under renovation. Matthew walks into the rear, which opens up into a large kitchen-diner. There’s a conservatory at the back letting light flood through. The garden is massive, full of mature trees and shrubs. Matthew notes my excitement at the sight and promises me a tour later. He appreciates that I spent half my life gardening but am unable to do so now. The colour scheme is cream, with odd walls and furnishings in red and orange to add warmth. The kitchen is utilitarian, all clean lines and stainless steel. The renovation has removed all warmth, though: no signs of a woman’s touch, no hand cream by the sink, no plants on the windowsill.

  He picks up the kettle and says, ‘I’m about to make tea. D’you want some? Sit down.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He makes the tea and brings it to the sofa. There’s no subtle way to ask him this, so I blurt out as I sit down, ‘I’ve come about Sarah’s diary.’

  ‘Oh.’ Matthew is suitably startled. ‘What diary?’

  ‘She kept diaries for every year. I’m hoping your parents kept them and that you or Chrissie has them now.’

  ‘No idea. I have some stuff upstairs.’ He smiles and cocks his head to one side, confused amusement pulling his forehead. ‘Why?’ His hand rests on his thigh. I want to put my hand over it, connect us.

  ‘Because there may be information in the one dated 1970, about Frankie … and Schmidt.’

  ‘Schmidt? What does he have to do with Sarah? You’re not saying he … touched her or something?’’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just Frankie was – well, I denied this to myself at the time, but Frankie was blackmailing Schmidt, and Sarah would have witnessed it. The pair meeting up, or whatever was going on. She would have written about it.’

  ‘You sound quite sure.’

  ‘I am. I liked to think Frankie was perfect but he wasn’t.’ My heart doesn’t lurch at my betrayal like it used to. My body doesn’t sweat and quiver as I speak of him. It hasn’t for some time now, and the freedom from it strengthens me.

  ‘I don’t know if I can read her diary.’ He wrinkles his nose in distaste.

  ‘But you must. The police need the information to catch Frankie’s killer. Schmidt.’

  ‘Schmidt? You think Schmidt killed Frankie?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure he did. I have a letter from Thora warning me about Frankie blackmailing him. That’s a good enough motive for the police to consider the possibility. Would you like me to read it for you if you don’t think –’

  ‘What? No!’ Matthew jumps up and paces, balling his fists.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’ I go to him and place my hands on his shoulders. ‘It’s so important that I overlooked how it might affect you. But Matthew, the police should know.’ I squeeze his shoulders, willing him to calm down. ‘Why not just hand it to the police to save yourself the distress?’

  He stills. ‘Sorry, Carol, but you need to go.’

  His voice is firm. He follows me as I grab my bag and make my way out. At the threshold I turn once more. ‘Please, Matthew, let the police have that diary. Don’t let Schmidt get away with murder. You owe it to Sarah.’

  Turning the ignition, I pray that he’s convinced. Matthew hates Schmidt, and if there is anything in her diary, he’ll enjoy putting a stake into Schmidt’s coffin.

  Chapter 61

  Wednesday, 29 June 2016

  Perry knocks on my study door and requests that I come to the sitting room. As I go downstairs, I hear voices and am startled to see that the police are here. They are grim-faced and ask me to sit down before they speak. Then DS Rose tells us Schmidt is dead. He’s been murdered by a man who has a ten-year-old son. He swears that Schmidt confessed to murdering the boy found with Frankie. But not Frankie. There will be an inquiry into what happened, and heads will roll, she assures us. That he will not be tried and convicted is a blow. A guilty verdict would resolve this.

  She tells us about the new evidence. Christine Allbright’s witness statement outlines Schmidt’s conduct. And Matthew had given them Sarah’s
diary, with information about where and when Frankie and Schmidt met and what they were doing and saying, and about Frankie blackmailing Schmidt. The sock they found in one of Thora’s filing cabinets belonged to the boy, as did the glove in Frankie’s pocket. Perry asked if there was any DNA and they declined to answer, but in a way that suggested there wasn’t.

  Perry asks if they are convinced that Schmidt murdered Frankie and they say they haven’t discounted it. If they know what Frankie was blackmailing Schmidt about, they’re not saying. But then they trip up and say they’re sure Frankie blackmailed Schmidt about the murder of the boy. We don’t ask if they have established a timeline. We don’t press them; they may realise that there are holes in their investigation.

  As soon as they leave, I collapse onto the sofa, but Perry assures me that Schmidt's death is the best outcome for us. He can’t protest his innocence. I’m nervous about the many loose ends, though. If the police step back and think logically about it, they may not come to the same conclusion. But Perry is having none of my doubts.

  ‘Carol, now they’ve established when all this happened, the thing always in your favour is that Frankie was decapitated. They won’t consider that you had the strength to do that while heavily pregnant. Or in your weakened state after giving birth. I found it hard to accept at the time – what you had done, how you had destroyed him.’

  His words sting. ‘What do you mean decapitated Frankie, destroyed Frankie? I didn’t … I don’t know what you mean.’

  He eyes darken into pinpricks, he pulls himself up and grabs my arm, and shouts, ‘Don’t try to get out of it this late in the day. What you did was sinful. Disgusting. Why don’t you take a tablet and lie down? I’m going back to work.’ His fingers dig into my flesh leaving more bruises as he pushes me away from him. The coffee table holds well as I crash onto it, but the corner knocks the breath out of me. A sharp pain radiates in my lower ribs.

  With that, he storms out, leaving me on the floor. My brain fugs as I try to recall what happened. The memory of what I did when killing Frankie is locked in a box that’s buried deep in my soul. My culpability will destroy me if it pushes its way into my consciousness. The girl inside knows the full horror, but I won’t ask her. I won’t let her tell me that I decapitated Frankie.

  Pain consumes me and I breathe raggedly. Uncertain of how to sit, there’s no choice but to hobble to my mobile. Who to tell? No one to confide in; no one to help me. Reluctantly, I phone Perry. He’ll be very pleased that he has to take me to the hospital.

  Chapter 62

  Wednesday, 27 July 2016

  My fractured ribs are healing. I’m proud of myself for convincing the medical staff that I fell onto our coffee table on my own. It seems they consider domestic violence when a husband brings his wife in for treatment late at night. Especially if both parties give slightly different versions of what happened. Perry’s near miss at being branded a wife-beater has not stopped his abuse, though. His fear of my implicating him in Frankie’s murder had always been my protector. Now we’re virtually in the clear and married, he trusts that he is free to do as he wishes. He tells me that Laura’s mother reminded her that just because she didn’t say ‘obey’ in her wedding vows, it’s implied. Marriage appears to give women a smokescreen of independence. The situation is intolerable, and I must work my way out of it.

  The internet holds many self-defence tactics, and I intend to deploy some soon. My ribs are the last straw. He tells me it was my fault for speaking as I did. That I cause his bad humour because I am me is unpalatable. In my frustration I think of ways to kill him. But that will not do. I will not go to prison for him, so I must stop obsessing about the various ways a man can die on a farm.

  My soul yearns for love, but I must focus on staying sane today. The radiant sunshine helps lift my spirits. Matthew draws me to him, and I ache to see him now Perry is showing his true colours. His simmering impatience and surliness have undertones of real violence. Perry doesn’t like me interfering in his business plans with Matthew. He says that I may be rich but so is he, and he can do as he wishes, marriage or not.

  Driving my new car across the temporary road to the village, I wonder why Matthew has invited me to his house on my own. And why I haven’t told Perry. Parking outside Cherry Tree Cottage, I check the time. The painkillers won’t kick in for another hour, and when they start to work I’ll feel sick. Then it will be time to return home before I get too fuzzy-headed.

  ‘Carol. Thanks for coming. Go straight through.’

  We drink coffee from over-sized orange cups and saucers, sitting on the large red comfortable couch. After placing my cup down on the oak coffee table, I lean back carefully, in the superfluity of deep cushions. Our legs are inches apart, and the thought that, but for a coverlet, we could be in bed sends a thrill through me. Matthew is a handsome man. Age has not diminished his allure. A buzz of maleness emanates from him. Does he feel what I feel? My skirt slides up over ten-denier stockings, exposing a few inches of thigh. Has he noticed that my legs are still toned and unblemished, a fitting testament to an active life in my home and garden? Sex with Perry has stopped due to my rib fracture, and I’m not sure it will resume.

  Giving the police Thora’s letter, coupled with Schmidt’s death, has released a weight from my shoulders. Not having to lie anymore, I can relax into myself. No longer living with concealed guilt restricting every waking moment, my innermost feelings long for the freedom of expression. Opening up about aspects of my life is a new concept. Perhaps it’s the effect of a cocktail of medication, but this urge to unburden itches like a scab loosening from my soul. I can be whatever I want to be now.

  Matthew is enquiring about the time Frankie left me, or rather after Schmidt killed him. My new liberty encases me with a cosy fuzziness as we discuss this. Frankie’s body is safe and Schmidt is presumed guilty of his murder. Perry and I are free. Perry has warned Matthew not to talk about the bodies to me. Perry continues to control what I do and who should say what to me and when.

  ‘Did you have any idea that Frankie had come back?’

  ‘Come back?’

  ‘Yes. You said he went to France, but he was in your orchard, so he came back.’

  ‘Obviously. But I don’t know when. I was staying with Perry’s family when Francine was born.’

  ‘Oh, do you know exactly when he died?’

  ‘No, I don’t. I was staying with Perry that Christmas, and again when Francine was born for a few weeks.’ His questioning is disconcerting. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason. Curiosity to know the grisly facts, I suppose. Wondered if the police have any more details.’ He laughs and moves the biscuit tin in front of me. ‘How’s Perry?’

  ‘Fine.’ My mobile buzzes so I drop my bag on the floor, out of the way.

  ‘I’m quite surprised about Perry. He’s not the old goat I’d thought he was.’ Matthew takes a sip and winces before replacing it. ‘Your set-up at Cleave Farm is impressive. Perry’s foresight to move into the organic business was inspired. And who’d have thought lavender would be so profitable? Thank you again for the wonderful meal. You certainly know how to cook, Carol.’

  Has he forgotten about the fingertip bruises he saw on my arm? A lucrative business idea trumps any qualms about a business partner’s penchant for abusing his wife. He continues: ‘So what do you think about the campsite?’

  ‘Perry hasn’t mentioned it again. You’re still going ahead with it?’

  ‘Well, yes, of course we are. I thought you would know.’

  ‘Perry doesn’t tell me what I don’t need to know.’

  Matthew looks perplexed at my irritation. He picks up his cup and sips, ‘Well, it’s a great money-spinner. I’ve finished working on the business plan; I’ll print a copy for you to take.’

  ‘Why not email it to him?’ Is this the reason he asked me here?

  Matthew laughs. ‘Of course. I forget about technology. We didn’t have wifi and what have you on the campsit
e. It was a real ‘get away from it all’ place,’ He fetches a pad and pen. ‘Jot your email addresses down.’

  As I write, I say, ‘Not thinking about retiring then? You must be nearing seventy.’

  ‘A few years yet, thanks very much. Don’t think I’ll ever retire. Been too active all my life. Can’t see myself sitting around doing nothing.’

  ‘Why did you leave France then? You said it was your home.’

  He flinches, and a fleeting grimace of trepidation passes across his face. ‘Sometimes life’s a bitch.’ He smiles and says, ‘Excuse my French.’

  ‘Oh, what happened?’ As I sit up I draw a deep breath and hold it to override the pain.

  ‘Nothing in particular. Apart from my relationship of twenty-five years breaking down.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Don’t be. We wanted different things; she wanted me to sell the campsite and retire. I didn’t. Then, when she left, it turned out the campsite lost its appeal. But it was too late for her. She’d ‘moved on’, as they say. So I thought I’d see out my days near Chrissie. D’you want a biscuit?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ His glance jars me and tells me that I won’t like whatever it is. ‘Will you take me to where Sarah died? I’ve forgotten where the tree is.’

  ‘I … you can’t access it from this side, with all the building going on, and …’ Surely he doesn’t need me. The next time I go there I don’t intend to come back. My ribs are hurting so I shift in discomfort, then I remember he knows the field and the way to the oak tree as well as anyone. It’s an excuse to be with me.

  ‘Are you okay? You look like you’re in pain.’

  I want to tell him that Perry broke my ribs but can’t see that it will change anything. ‘Yes, just a bit of cramp. Drive to the other end, where Schmidt used to live, and head up along the top lane, then right into Dawnview Lane. You shouldn’t have a problem.’