Matt leaving afterwards, well, it was a blip compared. Yes, that also hurt. I didn’t want to do this life thing alone, but it was out of my hands, as everything had been out of my hands. Matt blamed me. I blamed me. It was my body that had rejected Stephen. That had failed to keep him safe and warm and failed to give him the room to grow.
I stood and dropped my bag on the kitchen table. Checked Lilac’s water bowl. She was getting low, so I turned on the cold tap, let it run cool and refilled her bowl, putting it back on the floor with a clink.
So, my point, I felt love. I was capable of love. Just because I live alone with a cat, don’t pass me off as some crazy old cat lady. For one, I’m not that old, two I’m not that old, three, I only have one cat so I can’t possibly be a cat lady and four, I’m really not crazy, I have a brain in my head that I know how to use.
And, on those points, I was back to the strange emptiness in relation to yesterday. There was a disconnect.
I padded into my bedroom and pulled off my clothes.
Why was I so disconnected?
I threw my top into the wash basket and my jeans over the top of it; they’d do for tomorrow. I grabbed some jersey trousers out of a drawer, pulled them on with a sweater and moved back into the kitchen.
Maybe it was because it had been classed as an accident, or in police speak, not suspicious. Maybe that was why I didn’t feel like I had achieved what I had set out to do.
Did I need someone to say “this person has been murdered” and then to not be caught? To be nowhere near caught. For the cops to have not a clue. When it comes to the time to help Beth I definitely don’t want to be caught and though we’ll make it look like it was her own doing, she is weak and vulnerable and I need to prepare myself. I needed to practise again, have the act identified as murder so I could get used to that. Just thinking about Beth this way made me shudder. How I hated that she was in this place.
I looked at Lilac who was twirling in front of the cupboard door that held her food. Her bright eyes locked on mine as she did her dance.
‘Okay, you,’ I said, standing. ‘I think we need to change things up a bit.’
20
It was time to do some more research.
I had to kill someone, have it look like what it was, murder, but get away with it.
With several books under my belt I knew multiple methods already, but they seemed brutal and not quite my cup of tea. Plus I wasn’t sure any of my villains had walked away from the crimes they had committed, and the whole point of this was to walk away from it a free woman.
All I wanted to do was see if it could be done.
A Google search of ways to get away with murder indicated that one of the better ways to do it was with poison. I understood this because you didn’t have to get up close and personal with your victim. You didn’t have to leave fingerprints or DNA at a scene and the murder weapon was usually ingested unless of course it was through skin contact. The problem I had with it was that I’d read somewhere that it was typically a woman’s mode of murder and I didn’t want to fall into the stereotype of a female killer. Though I think female poisoners were more prevalent in the 1800s when poisons like arsenic were more readily available.
I pushed myself away from my laptop and stalked around the kitchen. I didn’t even think of myself as a killer. This was more about seeing if it was possible. To prove to myself that I could achieve something that I set out to do. I wasn’t some crazed person. This was work related. To see if it could be done. Research, if you like. And to fall into stereotype felt lazy.
I flicked on the kettle. Stared out of the window. It was cloudier today, there was even a possibility of rain. I could see one of my neighbours out cleaning their windows. Mr Kettering. He always looked after his place, his windows always sparkled and his flowerpots were always bright and perky.
The kettle boiled and I made a coffee.
If poison was the best way to do it then I should embrace it. After all, it was about the end results rather than what people thought, and besides, they couldn’t think much, because the whole point was that I wasn’t going to get caught.
I could do this. I could identify a poison, identify a victim and administer the poison, walk away clean and get away with the perfect murder and at that point I would feel… what? What was it I was hoping to feel from this experiment?
I had so many questions all the time and so few answers.
But, the one answer I did have was that the next person in this ongoing event or incident was going to die of poisoning.
Insulin.
That is what I decided upon after much research into poisons.
My decision was based on its toxicity level and the fact that it would get the job done. Plus, it was easy as hell to source online.
Yes, insulin that is made as a medicine is highly toxic if you take it when you don’t need it for medicinal purposes.
It is also fairly fast acting so I would have to be quick with what I was doing, administer it and leave without looking suspicious. I didn’t want to be around if the person fell ill. There were some poisons I read about that had an immediate effect but, according to my research the insulin reaction time was about ten minutes if injected, so longer if ingested. How long the person stayed in one place would determine what would play out. I needed time to administer it and get as far away as possible from the test case before anything untoward happened.
It didn’t take me long to locate what I needed. With my skills on a keyboard around the internet it was never going to be a problem. And while we’re at it, please don’t think I left a wonderful old trail for the cops as I tripped all over the internet with my search terms. No, I used private browsing and made sure I deleted my history and cookies. But, as a crime writer, my browsing history is a scary old mess anyway. You’d be terrified if you had a peek at it. Plus they’d need to suspect me first to then seize my computer to find the evidence and I’m not planning on them getting that far.
I had to hope I managed to administer enough to do the job. I didn’t want to make them sick, I wanted to kill them.
That sounds so harsh, doesn’t it? I hate talking about it in terms and words like that. It’s so much easier to think of it in an abstract way, that this is an experiment, to see if it’s something I can do. Using words, applying hard edged phrases to what it was and labelling it, well, there was no need for it.
I found and ordered the insulin after a lot of digging around online. It was coming from the US as they had a very healthy black market due to the cost of their health insurance.
Two weeks later and there was a knock at my door. A young Asian lad stood there with one of those electronic devices where you squiggle your name with a plastic pencil and it looks nothing like your name. He handed me the small box in return for my squiggle and waved me goodbye as he wandered off down the road. I knew what was inside. The postmark was from the States. My heartbeat picked up and I was overcome by a hot flush. I dug out a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and opened up the square box; nestled deep inside the packaging were two glass vials. My insulin had arrived. Now I had to decide where and when my next event was going to occur.
21
I drove to Ipswich for the event. I couldn’t possibly do it in Beccles. It was too small a town and there was every possibility that if they identified it as murder they could then identify what happened and circle back to me in some bizarre twist of policing fate.
As it was, Ipswich was only a little over an hour’s drive away and I was more than happy to take the trip.
I parked up in a public car park and paid the machine in cash. None of this pay with your mobile phone rubbish. Not today anyway. I enjoyed being as technologically indentured to the world as the next person, it just wouldn’t work for me today.
I wandered around the town until I found a small coffee shop down a side street that fitted my needs. Lilly’s Coffee and Cream. No CCTV inside. I mean, how many coffee shops had CCTV? It wasn’
t a problem I was going to come across. I needed it to be reasonably busy so that I would blend in, not stand out as a lone customer. Plus I needed to be able to choose a… a what? I hated the word victim. I’ve already said how I feel about this. That it’s an experiment and nothing more. But, I did need to choose a… participant! That was a good word for them. A participant. So, the coffee shop needed to be able to supply that.
It was eleven-thirty, not quite lunch time so not heaving yet, but gently ticking over when I walked in. It fitted my needs perfectly. It had a row of tables against a side wall adjacent to the front window and door, with tables and chairs scattered about the space at comfortable intervals in the middle. I scanned the room as I made my way over to the counter at the rear of the shop. Rather than my usual trick of trying to find a quiet corner I needed to be where the people were, but I also needed to be discreet. If I was going to do this I had to blend in, to be invisible.
There were a few people with laptops out along the left-hand wall. They looked perfect to me. They were all separate individuals, but had gathered together, found their own tribe quite unconsciously. I had also brought my laptop with me so I had something else to focus on while I was in here, though I wasn’t quite sure how focused I was going to be. But, this crowd on my left, they were perfect.
I hitched the strap of my bag further up my shoulder and ordered a cappuccino and a croissant with jam, paying the young man serving with cash. I was prepared again.
Armed with my mug and small plate I made my way over to the side of the room, glanced around as though I was looking for somewhere to sit, then took the last seat along the wall with the rest of the laptop workers. The majority of the people leaning over laptops looked to be students. Three young males and an older female who was not a student. That made two of us. Bookending the males between us.
I took a deep breath and settled in for the duration.
Who knew how long this was going to take, but I was not going to make a mess of it and screw it up. It would take as long as it took, but the game was on.
A man walked in five minutes after I seated myself at my table. There was something about him that immediately made me nervous. He carried himself with an air of confidence. He was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Relaxed and easy. His hair short and his face clean shaven.
He’s a cop, my brain screamed at me. Piercing the calm I had built up around myself. You have to get out of here, he’s a cop. Go, go now!
I caught my breath in my throat.
He’s not, I whispered back to myself. And the young lad to my left turned and looked at me. I tried to smile at him but my lips just stretched over my teeth.
What the hell was I doing?
Sweat gathered in my hairline at the base of my head and I wiped my hand along the back of my neck, scrubbing away the dampness that collected. I was heating up.
The man was at the counter. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
What if he’s not alone? What if his team is waiting to raid the place and they’re waiting for a signal from him? My mind was running wild. I turned to the door and to the large glass window that looked out onto the street. An ordinary Ipswich street with people going about their business. No signs of a group gathered waiting to raid the place to search my bag with knowledge of my plan.
My eyes swept back to the man. He laughed at the barista who was smiling at him, a twinkle that went all the way to his eyes.
What were they talking about? Were they putting on a show for me? To put me off the scent? Were they going to wait until I made my move and they would make theirs? That’s what they did. They looked like normal everyday people until that moment they kicked your doors in and pushed your face into the floor. Only they didn’t need to kick my door in, I had walked right into a public arena for them. They could do this with an audience. It could be captured on someone’s phone camera and uploaded onto a news network.
I could imagine the headline; Woman stopped with rapid takedown before she kills in coffee shop. I could see the images, the video. My face on the floor. My bag discarded on the table as the insulin bottle was removed and seized. Customers taking their own evidence of events with their mobile phones. I would be a national hate figure. What kind of woman walks into a public place to do this, to kill so openly?
They definitely knew.
The man moved to a table in the centre of the room. Found a small two-person table and settled himself there. His back to me.
That was just a ploy.
The lad at the next table looked at me again. Looked at my laptop still closed in front of me. I’d been sitting here staring into space, or staring at the man in the jeans and t-shirt for a good five minutes or so and I hadn’t moved. It was as though the laptop was for show.
I needed to get a grip.
My breathing was shallow and quick. I tried to get a hold of it. I tried to pull it in and slow it down.
The male on the middle table slapped his laptop lid closed and pushed it into a backpack, standing, stretching his arms above his head and pulling out a long yawn. He must have been sitting working there for a while.
I focused on him. Watched his movements. Something else to look at, to focus on. A normal part of coffee shop life.
With a scratch of his head he threw the backpack over his shoulder and moved away. The door tinkled as the little bell above it moved.
At least I would have a warning when they came barging in to get me.
I slid my hands down my jeans to wipe off my damp palms. A faint dark patch left on my thighs where I had moved my hands.
My breathing slowed.
The male to my left looked at me again.
I took his point. If I was going to get a laptop out then I was supposed to be working. I lifted the lid and keyed in my password. Shifted my eyes to the male at the table in front of us. He was leaning back in his chair, his phone in one hand and his drink in the other. He looked to be interested in whatever he was reading on his phone. He hadn’t turned and looked at me. There had been no secret signals between him and the smiling barista.
My racing heartrate slowed.
I was making a great big mess of this.
I opened my document, the novel I was working on, and read back over the couple of pages I had last written to get a feel of where I was, what I was thinking when I was last here and where I wanted to go next. All the while something at the back of my brain scratched at me to keep an eye on the man in front of me. To watch him. He was dangerous. But I ignored it. I trained myself on what was in front of me. I even started to tap a few words out, felt gingerly along the sentences, touched the characters’ hearts and decided I would break them a little more.
The seat vacated by the young man was now filled by a young woman and she also dropped a laptop onto the table. Ipswich was a university town so it was no surprise to see work being done in social settings this way and to see people gather together as we had all done.
Eventually I looked up as I saw movement in front of me and the man who had set my mind off in a crazy rabbit run stood. He ruffled his hair. Put some cash down on the table and made for the door.
He was leaving. Actually leaving. No cops were going to push their way through the door and slam me to the floor. It had all been in my imagination.
Unless his standing and leaving was the signal.
But I hadn’t done anything.
I held my breath.
Waited.
Nothing happened.
I’d let my mind run away with me.
Now I recognised that it was time to get a grip and put the plan into action.
22
The coffee shop was getting busier. The lunch time trade was walking in. Tables and chairs were filling up. I couldn’t decide whether I needed it to be this busy or whether I needed it to be less so. If it was packed with people would I be unseen when I slipped the insulin into a participant’s drink, or would some eagle-eyed customer spot me and call me out on it? Would it be be
tter if there were fewer people and I could keep an eye on everyone, see that they were not looking at me and make my move then?
I stayed in my chair, indecision making the decision for me. I continued to work on my manuscript. DI Chloe King was frustrated with the case. Her DS Max Black was trying to keep plodding along with the evidence, but Chloe, she could feel the killer mocking her, she could sense him close by. It was as though he knew her every move. She wanted to go out and work the case alone but Black ran up the chain of command and pulled her back. She was furious with him. It was for her safety, he said. She said he was compromising the investigation. He was going to kill again and they wouldn’t be able to stop him if they were constrained by red tape. Black had doomed an innocent person to death, she told him, before she walked out of the station.
I took a breath and looked up. The young man on my left was still here, still working as hard as I was. If he stayed where he was it was likely he would be the participant. Again, like Jarrod, he was young. Would this have a bearing on how the insulin worked in his body? The fact that he was young and healthy, did that mean it wouldn’t work? And how strange that fate had yet again chosen a young healthy male to pit me against. Not that they knew they were pitted against anyone. For them they were going about their business and didn’t expect it to be the last day of their lives. To be made immortal in this notebook. I would find out his name and write it in here. He would live on in here.
The young man was about twenty, twenty-two years of age with a full beard and had more hair on his face than his head. It’s all the rage at the moment. The young, they love their beards if they can grow one. He had a pair of glasses perched on his nose, dark black-rimmed, too big looking for his slim face. But he didn’t seem to care. He looked comfortable in his skin. He was young, he could wear what he wanted. The joy of being young.
Perfect Murder Page 9