PERFECT MURDER
by Rebecca Bradley
Text copyright © 2019 Rebecca Bradley
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Design for Writers.
Do you want to claim your FREE copy of Three Weeks Dead, the prequel novella to Shallow Waters, Made to be Broken, Fighting Monsters, The Twisted Web and Kill For Me, a police procedural series? I’d love it if you joined my readers’ club and joined the many others who have enjoyed this book or the DI Hannah Robbins series.
The great thing about Three Weeks Dead is that it can be read before or after Shallow Waters.
View it now.
Author’s note
If you are reading this then something has gone horribly wrong.
Let me start by telling you a little about myself. My name is Alice Friend and I live in the small market town of Beccles in Suffolk.
I’m a mid-list crime author, which means I keep writing books but you probably haven’t heard of me.
What you’re reading is a preface to the diary beyond, just in case you have picked it up and are wondering what it is.
As a woman of words, I thought I should keep a record of events. I mean, how else would I be able to prove that I had done it if I didn’t write it all down? But this record I’m keeping, I only intend it to be for my eyes.
I’m writing this preface not too long after I started the diary, and if you are reading this… then I may not have succeeded. I may be dead.
It’s fine if I’ve died of old age and you are reading this book because someone found it among my effects. Then, yes, all is still well and you’re finding out that I managed to do it.
Feel my joy from here.
The other options are that I died in the execution of my task or this is being read at my trial because I failed.
Because what I’ve tried to do is commit the perfect murder.
Don’t make that face. Who better to commit the perfect murder than a crime novelist? Look at the amount of research I have to do to write my novels. I know so much. Not just about the killing and disposing of bodies, but about police procedure as well. How the police investigate.
Did you know the police investigative murder manual can be downloaded online?
Not only do I know how to commit the perfect murder, but I know how to evade the law.
After all the books I’ve written and all the information I have absorbed, I wondered if I could actually get away with it. I don’t think I’d ever have acted on those thoughts had events not conspired against me in the way they did. But it all proved too much to bear and so the question became uppermost in my mind. Was it possible to commit the perfect murder?
If you’re a crime fiction fan, if you read a lot, it may have even crossed your mind. Come on, a little honesty. You can tell me. Who am I going to tell?
Look at the situation I’m in now.
1.
It was Thursday afternoon and I was finishing an article on crime against the elderly and how the threat against our ageing population was rising. Being a published author is a tough business so I also freelance on the side as a crime reporter. Both of these jobs I can do from home, or from any location really. I have a laptop which means I’m mobile. Coffee shops, pubs and trains all make equally good settings from which to work.
I had researched crimes against the elderly at a local level. What the violence statistics were for our local pensioners, and the detection rate, which to be honest, was pretty poor. The local paper was running it as a two-page spread. They liked anything that was violent and if that something also portrayed the police in a poor light, all the better for the piece. Not that they were anti-police, but it sold papers. The fact that our elderly were also getting this terrible service made my editor rub his hands in glee. He loved nothing better than getting the readers agitated.
Lilac, my cat, brushed herself around my ankles, demanding her food as I finished up. I looked at the clock as her soft coat tickled just underneath the hem of my jeans.
I rose from my chair, walked to the kitchen and dished out her food, placing it on the kitchen floor. She hummed her approval, twisting herself around my legs again before tucking into her dinner. Sometimes I was sure she only loved me because I fed her. Other times I believed we enjoyed each other’s company, but that might have been my point of view because Lilac and I only had each other here.
‘Time for the weekly shop,’ I told the back of her head. She wasn’t interested in me or where I was going. She was interested in the bottom of her bowl.
I grabbed a couple of ‘bags for life’, my car keys and headed to the door. ‘See you then,’ I said in vain before I stepped out and secured the door behind me.
It was the end of May. The day had been warm, though the temperature dropped as the day progressed.
People milled around in shorts and t-shirts, always eager to make the most of a fine day. The warmth on my skin and the glow of the sun on my face made me tilt my chin up to catch the last of the rays, a slight smile tugging at the edges of my mouth. I much preferred this time of year to the winter and I was glad we were now pretty much out of the drudgery that had been the last six months.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent a text.
Heading to supermarket now.
I had no idea why I felt this compulsion to send the text every week, but it went without fail. Check back through my messages and this time every Thursday the exact four-word message can be found. And a one-word response.
Ok.
Along with the text message came a warmth that spread through me and this time it was not an effect of the sun on my skin. I was happy. Genuinely happy. I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the phone. I would be there soon. Thursdays were good days, when I was able to do something positive.
I pushed the phone back in my jeans and started the car. Traffic was light – schools had closed for the day, workers had finished and visitors to our small market town were milling about or heading to hotels and Airbnbs to organise themselves for an evening meal.
I loved this place. It was home.
I hadn’t grown up in Beccles, I had moved here because of my ex-husband, Matt. He was from the area. I’d found it hard to make friends as I had no children to do the school run with and no external job to go to, but with him and Beth, I was happy.
The river Waveney played a central role in the town, with river tours as well as canoes and kayaks on the water. Beccles even had its own lido on Puddingmoor near the river. It had a slide and a one-metre springboard as well as a café for those who wanted to sit and watch or grab something after they swam. It even had a children’s adventure play area. I loved the Lido and spent many an hour there immersed in the water.
It didn’t take me long to get around the supermarket, picking up the bits that I needed. It was such a regular slot in my week that I could probably do the shop with my eyes closed. Once done and dusted I was soon at the house. I dropped the bags on the doorstep and fished for the key at the bottom of my pocket. Letting myself in, I shouted to announce myself as I heaved the loaded bags onto the kitchen counter.
‘Beth, it’s me.’
I started to unload the shopping. Put the milk, eggs and meat in the fridge. Filled the kettle with water and switched it on then unpacked the rest. Once unloaded I made two mugs of tea, one a proper mug and the other a plastic two-handled children’s-style beaker with a lid and a straw peeking through a hole in the top, and placed some chocolate digestives on a plate, stacked the plate on top of the proper mug and carried them through the house with me.
‘Beth, it’s all sorted. Tea is made, lovely.’ Walkin
g into her living room I flushed with love.
Beth smiled a weak grey smile at me from her bed in the living room. The nurse had propped her up on some pillows and the television was playing quietly. The hospital bed took up most of the space in the room, with a small area left for a couple of armchairs, a table on wheels that was able to roll over the top of a chair or the bed, and the television that was on the wall.
After putting the mugs on the table at her side, I leaned down, kissed her paper-thin cheek, and sniffed the fresh clean soap of her skin, which was already etched with an underlying sour scent.
‘Did Joy put the right channel on for you today?’ I looked at the television.
‘Don’t fret, love.’ Beth placed a hand over mine; it was cool to the touch. ‘It’s fine. I’m fine. You fuss too much. Anyway, we’ll be watching our favourite programme shortly.’
A lump forced its way into my throat, and cut off my voice. I nodded. Leaned against her bed. She liked us to watch Midsomer Murders together when I visited.
‘Hop up.’ Another smile.
Joy and Karen had put her to bed for the night. Joy and Karen were her carers who came Sunday to Thursday. We had different carers on Friday and Saturday. She needed two so they could get her in and out of bed and into and out of the chair. The multiple sclerosis she lived with was relentless on her and she was now at a stage where she needed this much help. I had managed on my own with her for as long as I was able, but she had insisted on getting outside help in so that I could keep working. We had fought about it for a long time but she had got upset about the issue so I had backed down. No matter that I had been prepared to care for her myself, it was a two-person task to get her out of the bed nowadays and, ultimately, it was Beth’s life and battling with her over something she was adamant about seemed to be the wrong hill to die on. So now I came to spend quality time with her rather than caring time for her and if I was honest, it was better for us as a family.
Gently, I eased myself beside her and leaned against my ex-mother-in-law’s frail frame.
‘How’s your day been?’ she asked as I fiddled with the remote control, lining up our programme.
It broke my heart, hearing her ask about my day when I came to see her like this. She always asked, no matter what her day had been like. Even before all this.
Before the MS. Before Matt and I split and before we even married. She always wanted to know about the articles I wrote and the stories I told. She bought every single one. She had to listen to the audiobook version now as she couldn’t lift and hold the book, but she still wanted to possess the paperback copy, proud that her daughter-in-law was an author. I had to buy it and bring it for her once she could no longer buy them herself.
She loved to hear about the process of writing. How I came up with the stories. The day-by-day, week-by-week process and the progress I was making. How it was going. Was I in the saggy middle that she knew drove me insane? The first draft that she knew I feared because the blank page was like a monster that stared me down and laughed in my face? The edit stage when my editor sent me notes and I felt about two inches high and a failure, even if the brain part of me realised the book would be so much better at the end of the editing process? Beth knew how I felt at each and every stage and she was fascinated by all of it.
I leaned in close again and took in more of her scent.
‘Your day?’ she whispered in my ear that was so close I could feel the warmth of her breath on my skin.
I laughed. ‘You don’t let up, do you?’
‘It’s why you come,’ she said.
And it was. I loved that she was interested in me. More interested than her son had been. Though he wasn’t much to talk about. The bastard had swanned off to the States and hadn’t come back, even though he knew his mother was ill. I wasn’t sure how honest she had been with him and I no longer had his contact details. He had changed his mobile phone number when we split. No reason to stay in touch, he’d said. We didn’t have kids.
A sore point.
I hadn’t given him any children. We had tried. We had tried for six years but they had never materialised. A few tests revealed it was my fault. I suggested we do something about it or even look at adopting, after all, there were plenty of children out there in need of a loving home. Two months after we had been told the fault lay with me, with long silences filling those days and weeks and months, stretching them out so that I felt as though the world had tipped and my thoughts scrambled around in my head, trying to grasp hold of something solid, he left. Said it wasn’t working. Then he changed his phone number.
I begged Beth to let him know how bad things were for her. She promised she would, then said she had. But I didn’t trust her on this point. She was a proud woman and a kind woman. She thought she was doing what was best for him. Allowing him to live his life. If she contacted him and let him know how quickly the disease was progressing and he came back then he might not get the life back that he currently had. I knew how she thought. We had long enough conversations.
‘My day has been good,’ I told her. ‘I finished an article I’d been researching and writing.’
‘The one about the pensioners.’
I picked up my mug. It was still too hot for Beth, therefore, too hot for me. I placed it back on the table. ‘Yeah. The pensioners.’
A whisper of a sigh escaped her lips.
I gave her elbow a gentle nudge. ‘Hey, you’re no pensioner, you’re fifty-eight, Beth.’ I knew what she was thinking, though, and it broke my heart. I could feel the pain in my chest as she contemplated that this was her life. That this was all she had in front of her. The band around my chest constricted and I caught my breath. Beth took hold of my hand, her slim bony fingers loose as they cradled mine. I gave her a weak smile and leaned over, picked up her mug, then went to hand it to her.
She shook her head.
I put the mug back on the table.
‘Alice.’ Her voice was gentle, she was tired.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
Her hand was still wrapped over mine. Her skin soft, but loose. Her fingers light on mine.
‘You know this is getting no better.’
She sagged at the side of me. She must be having a bad day.
‘Do you want me to take you out tomorrow? It’s been a beautiful day today.’
She shook her head.
‘It’s not about that. I need you to listen to me, sweet child, and listen hard. Don’t interrupt until I’m done.’ Her eyes bored into me. ‘Promise.’
‘What’s this about, Beth?’ I was worried.
‘Promise?’
She wouldn’t go forward unless I promised to keep my thoughts to myself as she spoke.
I nodded.
Her hand patted mine.
‘It’s getting worse. You know that, don’t you?’
I looked at her. ‘You want me to answer now?’
‘Don’t be flippant.’ She narrowed her eyes at me.
‘I’m sorry.’ I placed my spare hand on top of hers. ‘I know it’s hard, Beth. But we have things in place.’
She stared at me.
‘I’m being quiet now.’
‘I know you, Alice. I know you will have researched this disease and will know as much about it as I do. You know how this is going. Where I am headed. My muscles are no longer my own. I need a straw to help me drink, for God’s sake!’
I squeezed her hand. It had been tough when we had switched from an everyday mug to the plastic lidded and straw one she used now. It was to stop spillages from her inability to grip it properly, and to aid with swallowing so she wouldn’t choke. She had fought against it, there had been tears as she succumbed to the disease another step. But since then she had been the Beth I know and love. A brave and wondrous woman.
‘I need something from you.’
I looked her in the eyes and smiled at her.
‘It’ll be the hardest thing you’ve ever done, Alice.’
My smil
e faltered and my stomach twisted.
I knew what this was. She’d hinted at it in the past. When she’d first been diagnosed she had brought it up for a future possibility and then again as she had started to deteriorate.
‘What about Matt?’
‘He’s not here, sweetheart. I wouldn’t ask, but you’re all I have. I trust you and I love you and for this, I need you.’
I wanted her to stop. I’d promised not to interrupt her though.
I shook my head.
‘Alice, sweetheart. You’re the only one I can ask. I don’t want to choke on a mug of tea or some other slop I’m being fed. It’s no way to go. I want to go on my terms and in my time and with the person I love at my side.’
Tears filled my eyes. I wanted to howl at the moon. My chest felt as though it had been carved wide open with a wooden spoon. I flung my arms around her and buried my face into her neck.
‘You know what I’m saying?’ she whispered, warm breath tickling my neck.
I breathed in her scent and nodded my understanding as tears began to fall.
‘Hush now,’ she murmured. ‘You’re a strong young woman. I love you, I trust you. We can do this.’
I shook my head, still snug in her neck. Her hand cupped the back of my head.
‘It’s okay, Alice. It’s okay.’ Her lips touched the top of my head and her warm breath washed over me.
I loved this woman so much. What she was asking was just too much.
‘Alice, it’s time. I want you to help me die.’
2.
I took my mug into the kitchen, said I needed another drink. That it had got too cold for me and I needed a fresh one. The truth was, as I watched the kettle build up to the boil, I needed to get away from Beth. It was the first time I had ever thought that about her. I loved her with all my heart, but what she was asking of me was too much.
I understood the pain she was in, how awful it must be for her to live her life in her living room, moved from bed to chair by a couple of strangers; no matter how much they got to know her and were friendly with her, they were paid strangers. Paid to take care of her. They wouldn’t visit her if they weren’t paid. They didn’t love her like I did. No matter how much I understood where she was coming from, I didn’t know how she expected me to do this for her. She was as much my life as I was hers. I didn’t have friends or other relatives. I had Beth and if I took Beth out of the equation I had no one.
Perfect Murder Page 1