I could tell you more, of course, but I trust that I’ve already persuaded you never to eat factory farmed birds, robbed of their freedom, sunlight and a natural diet.
Speaking of diet, I murdered Kev by putting arsenic in his drink. It seemed fitting. It’s regularly used in chicken feed abroad though it’s now been banned Europe-wide.
I asked him about the arsenic he was giving his chickens, having heard from Deborah that he was adding it illegally.
‘Yeah, it’s great stuff. Kills stomach parasites, gives them a better colour and bigger breasts.’
He was a man without a heart …
I took a large container of the powdered poison from his safe and added a lethal dose of it to his pint before bringing it to him on the porch. I kept my own unadulterated drink in my right hand, terrified of inadvertently swapping. Within twenty minutes he began to sweat.
‘Fuck, it’s hot,’ he said and I wondered briefly if he’d soon be going someplace even hotter. ‘Think I’ll have a lie down,’ he muttered a minute later and I knew that his bowels were starting to cramp.
He staggered into the bathroom then, a few minutes later, into the master bedroom. I’d unplugged the telephone socket, of course, and had confiscated his mobile and told Deborah to linger at the village hall with her friends after her aerobics class. Now I put my headphones on for an hour so that I wouldn’t hear his screams.
The cleaning lady found him dead on his bed the following morning, clutching a photo of his late wife. The arsenic container and pint glass on the bedside cabinet were dutifully taken away by the police.
I’m sure that the coroner’s verdict will be that he took his own life: after all, farmers have one of the highest suicide rates in the country. His staffing problems were legendary, with many of his birds dying because he couldn’t find men to harvest them, and his near neighbours had seen the lorries of dead and dying birds so chose to keep a wide berth. Deborah will testify that he never got over his wife’s death and the cleaner will confirm that he’d spoken of long, lonely days and fractured nights.
So, did I kill a bewildered but essentially hard working man? At the time, I thought not. Deborah had told me that her father had neglected her diabetic mother until her health failed and led to her very premature death. She described him as a control freak who’d disinherit her and leave her penniless if she ever moved away from the family farm.
Fortunately Deborah inherited her mother’s compassion for all creatures great and small. That’s where she and I met, at a London animal rights meeting. She daren’t go on the rallies, or anywhere else where cameras were present, for fear of her dad.
But she listened and learned and, in the six months that I’d been secretly dating her, passed on masses of information about the cruelties that she’d witnessed. These cruelties were an accepted part of the chicken industry, though, so wouldn’t be enough to close him down. We needed him to die in order to liberate millions of voiceless victims. We just had to wait until Deborah could legally inherit at eighteen, the day she brought me home for the very first time.
We got married last month. In a way, we had to. After all, she recruited me to be her father’s killer so we have too much on each other to ever part. We have to stay here for the foreseeable future, too, as Deborah is against gassing the existing birds to put them out of their misery so we have to wait for them to resume normal weight and mobility before attempting to find suitable homes.
She wants to sell starter hen kits to organic gardeners. You know the deal – a henhouse, a wire coop, two hens and chicken feed. She also insists on having the henhouses made here in Britain so I’m desperately trying to cut a deal with an ethical firm. I need to run every decision past her as it’s her house and her business but she’s always gallivanting around town or at her aerobics class.
She decides what we do, who we see, where we go, even how much pocket money I can have on a weekly basis. I was an animal-loving liberal but now I’m ironically caged. I loathe the present, fear the future and cannot escape the macabre memories of the recent past. So I wake up at night, heart almost leaping from my chest and eyes wide open, recalling the groans as I thrust the photograph of Kev’s wife into his spasmodically-jerking hands.
‘What are you thinking?’ Deborah whispers with her usual annoying intensity.
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ I quaver and tear my gaze away, with difficulty, from her slender neck.
A GLIMPSE OF HELL
Martin Edwards
Martin Edwards’ latest Lake District Mystery is The Frozen Shroud. The series includes The Coffin Trail (short-listed for the Theakston’s prize for best British crime novel), The Arsenic Labyrinth and The Serpent Pool. He has written eight novels about Liverpool lawyer Harry Devlin, and two stand-alone novels, including Dancing for the Hangman. He has won the CWA Short Story Dagger and edited twenty-two anthologies.
Another day in paradise. Joolz adjusted her sunglasses as she hurried out of the excursion office. Time was tight, but she must text Giddy before she met her group.
Meet me outside Lobster Pot at two. Need to talk. xx
Giddy’s face grinned at her from the phone. Dark, tanned, and handsome enough to make your heart stop. His real name was Gideon, but everyone had called him Giddy since he was a kid. He was famously unreliable, but he said he simply liked to dream. She just needed to take care he didn’t try to make one particular dream come true.
Waiting for a gap in the traffic, she scrolled through the pictures. Giddy was wary of being photographed with her, said it wasn’t safe, but over the past three months, she’d captured a dozen shots of him, starting that very first night they met, at a full moon party on Seven Mile Beach. She’d snapped him through the writhing flames of the huge bonfire. It wasn’t just the martinis and the thudding rhythms from the kitchen band that made her knees buckle. He still had that effect on her. But now she had to save him from himself, before it was too late. First, she’d tell Wesley it was all off, whatever he and Giddy had discussed. Then, at the Lobster Pot, she’d insist Giddy make his choice between love and money. He’d surely decide to go with her – wouldn’t he?
She crossed the road, and a dozen loping strides took her to the North Terminal. The tourists were chattering outside the souvenir shop. The tender had brought them in from the liner, and they were ready to roll. Most of them looked as though they would roll very easily. Joolz dared not think how much they had eaten since their cruise began at New Orleans. Wait till they discovered the island’s cassava cake. Joolz rationed herself to one slice a week. She thought she was too skinny, but Giddy said he loved her this way. He didn’t care for fat women.
‘Hi there! My name is Joolz, and I’m your tour guide for today.’
Expectant faces beamed back at her. An American woman with dyed red hair as dazzling as the sun said, ‘I wanted to go snorkelling, but this guy is all for the easy life.’
The man at her side, rotund and balding, said, ‘We’re in Grand Cayman for less than six hours, honey. Makes sense to pack in as much as we can. See the sights.’
‘Hey, is this our bus?’ a small nervous woman asked.
Since this was tour number 7, and the approaching bus had a large placard behind the windscreen bearing that number, the answer seemed obvious, but Joolz beamed and said, ‘You’re absolutely right.’
Her smile froze as she recognised Seymour’s grizzled hair behind the wheel. No dreadlocks, no Wesley. Where was he?
Seymour opened the door. ‘Hey, beautiful, ain’t you pleased I’m driving y’all today? What’s with the frown?’
‘What happened to Wesley?’
‘Called in sick, I guess.’ Seymour grinned. ‘Smoked one joint too many last night, huh? Big mistake. Mr Pottinger won’t be pleased.’
Joolz caught her breath. What was Wesley up to? She must have been mad to introduce him to Giddy.
‘Do we get on now?’ The nervous woman had come up behind her, and the rest of the party were only
a step or two behind.
‘Yes, yes, that’s fine.’ She hoped she didn’t sound as panicky as she felt. ‘Please can you show me your tickets as you board?’
They filed past her, and she checked their tickets against the details on her clipboard. All present and correct. Taking a deep breath, she jumped up the steps, and grabbed the microphone.
‘Good morning again, ladies and gentlemen, and a very warm welcome to Grand Cayman from me and our driver Seymour. We’ll start by heading out of George Town and passing the hotels and condos of Seven Mile Beach. Why it’s called that, I’m not quite sure, because it’s less than six miles long.’
Everyone tittered, and a wrinkled Englishman in a floppy white hat said in a stage whisper, ‘So they have a serious inflation problem here, as well?’
Joolz rewarded the old man with a big smile. Every tour party had one guy who prided himself on his sense of humour. On a really bad day, you were landed with three or four of them.
‘After driving by the beach, we have a special treat lined up for you. We’ll sail through the amazing mangroves, and you’ll get up close and personal with all sorts of wonderful creatures in this very special habitat.’
A woman in an aisle seat put up her hand. Obviously British. ‘It is a boat trip, isn’t it? Not a kayak.’
‘Definitely a boat trip,’ Joolz promised. ‘Anyway, after the boat trip, we rejoin the bus, and then we set off for … a glimpse of Hell.’
Cue excited murmuring from a handful of passengers who hadn’t bothered to study the itinerary. ‘Actually, Hell is a tiny place in the West Bay district. The name comes from a very unusual and distinctive black rock formation. We’ll stop there for ten minutes, so you can buy postcards and gifts. Who knows, you may even meet up with the Devil himself!’
The guy from the shop at Hell wore a devil’s costume, but Wesley didn’t need to dress up for Joolz to suspect he was a devil too. He was always laughing and joking, and the tourists loved his risqué humour. Yet there was a dangerous glint in those dark eyes, and his smile resembled a shark’s. What if Giddy had entered into some sort of pact with him?
Enough. No point in dwelling on it. Nothing she could do now until she and Giddy talked. Switching to auto-pilot, she launched into her all-you-need-to-know-about-Grand-Cayman spiel. It only took five minutes.
‘So this place is British and you’re British?’ the red-haired woman deduced. ‘Like a home from home, then.’
‘You could say so,’ Joolz said. She’d been happy here, but she was ready to move on. After all, this was just a small, flat strip of land in the sea, where people only came to chill out or make money.
‘Tax haven, eh?’ the wrinkly Englishman asked, as they reached the car park at the new marina.
‘Off-shore finance makes a valuable contribution to the local economy,’ she said sweetly. ‘Look, we’re here!’
Giddy worked for a financial services firm called McCulloch Stott. Just a small cog in a big wheel. He’d trained as a lawyer in the City, but found it too much like hard work and fled to the Caribbean. He spent a few years as a beach bum before charming the pants off a girl who just happened to be the daughter of McCulloch Stott’s senior partner. She’d persuaded her father to find him a job, and six months later they were married. They still were, Giddy confessed to Joolz, just before they slept together for the first time. Joolz didn’t mind too much, she’d already figured out he was too good to be true. Easy come, easy go, that was the story of her love life.
Except that Giddy said he would never let her go.
‘How’s my lovely lady?’Klaus, the skipper, gave her a peck on the cheek. He was sixty, and smelled of raw fish, but she was fond of him. After they had helped the guests on board, he murmured, ‘You okay?’
‘Never better,’ she lied. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You look like you didn’t sleep too good last night.’ Klaus frowned. ‘That boyfriend of yours treating you right, I hope?’
‘Everything’s fine, thanks, sweetie.’ Klaus had never met Giddy, but he knew there was someone. Had Wesley opened his big mouth? He ought to be smart enough to keep quiet, but with Wesley, you never knew. He was a loose cannon. When he was stoned, he might say anything. Or do anything.
‘Good.’ Out of sight from the guests, Klaus made a swift throat-slitting gesture. ‘Any fellow makes trouble for you, he answers to me, okay?’
‘It’s all good.’ Oh, if only …
‘And where is Wesley?’
She shrugged. ‘Off sick, Seymour reckons.’
Klaus gave a sceptical grunt and strode to the wheel. Joolz picked up her microphone, and announced that they were about to sail into the mangroves.
‘The nursery of the reef, some people call it. We have everything here, from baby barracuda to green iguanas. Along the way, you’ll have the chance to pet a jellyfish.’
Iguanas, yes. It had taken a while for her to spot the similarity between Giddy and an iguana. After all, he was so gorgeous and the iguana – well … But there was a sort of sleepy-eyed menace that her lover and the reptile shared in common. Iguanas were harmless, though. As for Giddy, she was no longer sure. He insisted he wanted her, not the spoiled rich neurotic he’d married. The only snag was the money.
‘I signed a pre-nup.’ He shook his head, as if bewildered by his own naivete. ‘Her daddy’s one of the smartest businessmen on the island, never believed I was good enough for his darling daughter. He insisted on drawing up a deal. If I divorce Mary-Alice inside five years, I lose pretty much everything. Of course, there’s a pay-off, just enough to make sure I keep my mouth shut, but I’d be finished. He pulls the strings of the management board, and they’d have me out on my ear. Word gets around in the business world. I’d be good for nothing.’
She’d never had money, she wasn’t like Mary-Alice, with a trust fund to keep her insulated from the real world. But money didn’t matter, as long as she and Giddy were together. And hadn’t he always dreamed of becoming a beach bum once again, carefree and wild? When she reminded him, he looked at her as though she were mad.
‘I bet you were born within five miles of Leeds city centre,’ a grey-haired woman in a flowing floral dress said, as the boat drifted over the water. ‘Small world, our house is across the road from Oakwood Clock. How long have you lived here?’
‘You’re quite a detective,’ Joolz admitted. ‘Harehills, actually. Came over three years ago, to teach Maths. I only meant to stay for twelve months.’
‘But you fell in love?’
‘With the island,’ Joolz said hastily. She waved at the swaying green ferns. ‘You can understand, can’t you? I decided I’d much rather spend my days outside the classroom.’
‘And will you stay here permanently?’
She fobbed the woman off with a smile and a shrug. But her question demanded an answer. It was time to move on. Like Giddy said, you only had one chance in life. Carpe diem. He knew more Latin than she did, that was a private education for you.
‘You said the island was named after alligators,’ the red-haired woman said, giving the water a suspicious stare as the boat puttered to a halt. ‘Are there …?’
‘None whatsoever, you couldn’t be safer. Though some of the biggest iguanas look a bit like crocs!’ Joolz reassured her so thoroughly that the woman seemed disappointed. She frowned all the way through the homily on the wonders of the mangrove forest’s ecosystem.
‘There are sharks, though,’ the man in the floppy hat said. ‘Tells you about them on the internet.’
‘Not all of them live in the sea, though,’ said Klaus. ‘The worst sharks work in those glitzy offices in George Town.’
Too right. Danger on Grand Cayman didn’t come from the wildlife. It came from the likes of Wesley, Mister Shark’s-Teeth Smile. It had begun as a joke, this idea of Giddy hiring someone to kill Mary-Alice while he established a water-tight alibi, drinking the night away with financier friends at a bar on the other side of the island. He spoke so lig
htly about it that at first Joolz played along. It was a game, nothing more. He couldn’t be serious, and there was no harm in dreaming.
‘Those houses must cost a packet,’ the floppy hat man said as the boat headed back towards the waiting bus. There was plenty of new building around the marina. ‘But why so much concrete?’
‘The highest point on Grand Cayman is sixty feet above sea level. When Hurricane Ivan hit us, the island was devastated. Building a house strong enough to survive another hurricane costs a small fortune.’
While the others contemplated the possibility of having everything they’d worked for destroyed in a matter of moments, the woman from Leeds said, ‘You need to find a wealthy boyfriend, then.’
‘I certainly do!’ Joolz said with a laugh.
The woman patted her hand. ‘With hair that blonde, and eyes so blue, you won’t have any trouble, dear.’
‘She’s spoken for, lady,’ a guttural voice said. Oh God, Klaus had decided to join in the fun. ‘Though we have not been allowed to meet him yet. I only hope we are honoured with an invitation to the wedding.’
‘See that little lizard on the bank?’ Joolz said. ‘You can take a photo of him, if you’re quick.’
Of course, she had options. She could even break with Giddy if he refused to leave Grand Cayman with her. But she’d hate to leave him alone with Mary-Alice, and a house full of hang-ups. Giddy needed her as much as she needed him.
Joolz wished Mary-Alice no harm, really, but the woman was a flake. No wonder Giddy was sick of her. Even before the wedding, she’d made a half-hearted attempt to slit her wrists. On their first anniversary, after a huge row, she’d taken an overdose, and had to have her stomach pumped. When she wasn’t self-harming, she was flying into violent rages and hurling crockery whenever Giddy put a foot wrong. She’d even had a couple of one-night stands with blokes she’d met in clubs and bars. Her father said Giddy was a lousy husband, made him a scapegoat for a money-rich, attention-poor upbringing guaranteed to warp his daughter’s personality. Giddy said he felt like a prisoner in a gilded cage.
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