Love You to Death: An Absolutely Gripping Thriller with a Killer Twist

by Caroline Mitchell

  The scene guard officer dished out white oversuits and gloves at the gate, quickly jotting down their names before allowing them inside. Ruby slid a hairband from her wrist and scooped up her long dark tresses into a ponytail. Crime scene investigators were en route, and she zipped up the front of her bunny suit, keeping her eyes sharply tuned for evidence.

  Slowly, she walked through the front door, admiring the small crystal chandelier as it reflected spots of light on the magnolia walls. Apart from the recent threads of police boots on the thick oatmeal carpet, the hall was spotlessly clean. The scent of lilies intermingled with a blast of warm air wafting in from outside, and she brushed past the table in the hall, avoiding the pollen-ripe stamens. The body was fresh, which was just as well given the recent spate of hot weather. At least she was spared the acrid, cheesy smell of decay. She had visited many murder scenes where the victims had been in various stages of decomposition. The dead did not bother her. It was the living that played on her mind. Ruby pushed down on the bronze door handle with the tips of her gloved fingers as she entered the living room. The crime scene investigators would not be best pleased she had beaten them to it, but the ‘golden hour’ was so called for a reason. Downes strode purposefully past her to the body, his tweed jacket swishing inside the paper-thin suit. He surveyed the blood splatters on the wall, while Ruby held her ground, taking in the scene. She briefly closed her eyes, allowing her senses to do the work. She could smell antiseptic, hear more than one ticking clock. A trickle of sweat ran down the curve of her back. She glanced around the room, storing the images to her memory bank. An upturned coffee table, a broken ornament; the disturbance was small but spoke volumes.

  Lastly, she turned her attention to the body. The stocky man was face down on the floor, producing enough blood to soak through the surrounding carpet and dribble onto the linoleum through the open kitchen door. His short auburn hair was combed back at the sides, and a wedding ring graced the finger of his left hand. A splatter of crimson laced a copper bracelet, and his once blue shirt was now drenched in blood. Ruby cast her eyes over the puncture wound between his shoulder blades.

  ‘See his hands?’ DI Downes said as he stepped over the blood that was now congealing into jellied bubbles.

  Ruby nodded. She had already noticed his clenched right fist. His left hand was gripped tightly around a black cordless phone.

  ‘He didn’t put his hands out in front of him as he fell. It’s an automatic reaction. The fact his fists are clenched and by his sides suggest he could have had some seizure or heart attack on the way down. That’s why his face took the brunt of the fall.’

  Ruby frowned. ‘Why would she stab him if he was going to cop it anyway? Surely it would have been better to leave him to die?’

  DI Downes snorted. ‘Ach, you know what domestic murders are like; they’re rarely from a logical standpoint.’

  Ruby felt a sneeze coming on and turned away as she pinched the bridge of her nose. It reminded her of the crime scene she’d brought Luddy to, the year before, when he forgot to wear a mask, and he had sneezed all over the body. His desk was covered in Kleenex for weeks afterwards by his colleagues. She held in the expulsion, sniffling, as she regained her composure.

  She took in the inoffensive room. It was spotlessly clean; no alcohol that she could see; nothing to relay drugs were a factor either. Ruby surveyed the photos hanging on the wall. A much younger Harry Edmonds smiled for the camera with a small mousey woman on his arm. She looked more like his daughter than his wife, but the wedding photos erased any doubt from Ruby’s mind. There were no recent pictures to speak of, and no evidence of children or pets. She tiptoed past the body to the kitchen. It could have passed for a show home. The knife block resting on the counter was full. She opened the cupboards to see every tin was facing the same way, perfectly tidy and not a crumb out of place. A slight hint of lemon cleaner lingered in the air. It made a change from the usual crime scene, where you wiped your feet on the way out.

  ‘I’m not happy about this scene,’ Ruby said, crossing her ankles as she leaned against the doorframe, ‘it’s all too perfect.’ She caught a glimpse of silver as DI Downes slid his hip flask back into his suit pocket. She waved away his offer of a mint before he sheepishly popped one into his mouth.

  ‘Only you could complain about being given a suspect on a plate,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

  Outside, a chorus of voices followed by the sound of van doors slamming indicated that CSI were here.

  ‘I should have known you’d be trampling all over my scene,’ the husky voice of Bones greeted DI Downes. The stocky dreadlocked black man was nicknamed such because of the model of a human skeleton taking up residence in his office. Ruby had once overheard him talking to it and had never allowed him to live it down.

  ‘And your partner in crime here as well! Ruby, made a start in the kitchen too?’

  Ruby had the decency to look embarrassed. She knew how territorial Bones could get about his precious crime scenes. ‘Sorry. We haven’t been upstairs.’

  Bones shrugged, watching, as his colleagues lay down the stepping plates. ‘No matter. One of the neighbours saw his missus get a taxi last night, and she was carrying an overnight bag. Prima facie by the sounds of it.’

  Prima facie. Open and shut case. The concept held no weight with Ruby. She narrowed her eyes in defiance. ‘Don’t use those swear words with me, Bones.’

  Bones grinned, making a fishing rod gesture with his hands. He had reeled her in once again. Ruby snorted before leaving the building, glad to step out of the paper suit that was making her sweat. A crowd was gathering behind the police tape, and she pushed through them to the car. It was time to get back to the nick. She had that uneasy feeling in her gut. Her innate voice that whispered whenever all was not as it seemed.

  Just where was the murder weapon that killed Harry Edmonds?

  And more to the point: where was his wife?

  CHAPTER THREE

  The stairs creaked as Lucy took each step upwards, her shoulders slumped, the tips of her gloves wet with blood. Tears ran unbidden down her face: not for Emily Edmonds, but for the dream of a mother she had left behind. Emily wasn’t her mother. She was just like all the others. Nothing but a huge disappointment. She would have to clean up the mess before she could even think about starting again.

  Steam rose in puffs of clouds as the bath filled, and she wiped the sides of the old music box clean. Despite the mouldy tiles and the paint chipping on the bathroom ceiling, she couldn’t bring herself to activate the extractor fan. She liked the steam, and the condensation dripping lazily down the walls. She could pretend she was in a different place rather than here, at home, abandoned and alone. The music box gave an involuntary tinkle as she gently placed it on the tiled window ledge.

  She tutted at the splatters of blood as she slipped off her lace-up boots. She had cleaned them up before; she could do it again. ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word… ’ she sang. Pulling off the bloodstained apron and then her dress, she rolled down her black tights and removed her underwear. ‘Mama’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.’ She wasn’t wearing a bra. Little girls didn’t need things like that. The wig was the last thing to come off, and she walked across the landing and placed it lovingly on the styrofoam head in her bedroom. The blonde ringlets bounced as it settled, and she hummed the rest of the tune, fixing the dummy’s head until it was in line with all the others. Satisfied, she returned to the bathroom.

  Steaming hot water sloshed over the sides of the roll-top bath as she eased herself in. She would need to wash again after she disposed of the body, but she didn’t want to think about that. She needed to go to a happy place now that the rage had subsided. She wound her music box, allowing the tinkling tune of ‘Hush, Little Baby’ to carry her away.

  Holding her breath, she submerged herself under the water. She was there in an instant. A reset button flicked in her brain, and she opened her eyes, allowing her fantasies of
Emily Edmonds to wash away. She was not Lucy Edmonds. She had another Mummy with a different surname, and soon she would be knocking on her door.

  Steam haloed around her head as she emerged, giving in to the instinctive need for air. She closed her eyes as the scene played out, vivid in her imagination. It was warm, comforting, the perfect Christmas Day, back in a time where nobody could hurt her. Her hands caressed the silkiness of her skin, until the scene dissolved and the transformation was complete. She was no longer a child at Christmas but a woman, and she had housework to do and a mess to clean up in the basement. She examined her hands and thought of the blood, the life she had extinguished. Emily’s muffled pleas had not gained her empathy, but fed her sense of power. Emily was merely a representative of all the people who turned their back on her pain. Lucy allowed the blood-tinged foam to wash over her as she dipped her chin into the water; her hands stroking now, gaining in rhythm. ‘Yes,’ she moaned. That felt good. There was nothing to regret. Soon she could start again.

  She re-enacted the basement scene: the blood dripping from the corners of Emily’s mouth; staining Lucy’s gloves as she gripped her throat. The metal chair, tilting and collapsing beneath them as she straddled Emily’s limp frame. Finally, the thrill of feeling Emily’s pulse fade beneath her fingers as her pathetic life ebbed away. Lucy’s eyes rolled back into her head as pleasure rippled through her body. Gradually, the water turned cold and the sound of the music box stilled.

  Tomorrow she would begin again. And again. And again.

  She would do what it took to find her mother. Somebody worthy of her love.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ruby nodded at staff through the reception window as she scrawled her signature across the visitor’s book. Just being in Oakwood helped settle her, at least for a little while. Pressing the code on the keypad, she pushed through the double doors. She knew it off by heart and didn’t need the staff to let her in anymore. She was as much a part of the furniture as they were and they often joked they should give her a job there. She inhaled the sweet smell of wild flowers picked from the fields to the rear of the building, which was built on five acres of land. The private nursing homes were a far cry from the acrid council-run buildings, stinking of piss and bleach: the stuff of nightmares – the residents staring with empty eyes like cattle in a holding pen waiting to die. Ruby had attended one such home when she was in uniform, investigating a series of sudden deaths where neglected patients were left to choke on their food. Seeing her mother here, in Oakwood, with a healthy flush in her cheeks and comfortable, pleasant surroundings, made living in her own shoddy flat worthwhile.

  Joy was sitting next to Brian, an old boy in a wheelchair who spent every day reliving his job at his hardware store. Ruby sometimes chatted to him about screws and lug nuts, whatever he dreamt was on sale that day. But today she didn’t want to chat to anyone else. Today she wanted to immerse herself in her mother’s presence. The light scent of lily of the valley caressed her senses as she leaned over to kiss her. Her silvery white hair shimmered with a tint of blue, and she wanted to hug her tightly, to draw her close and never let go.

  ‘Hello Mum,’ Ruby said as she kissed her mother’s cheek. Her mother frowned slightly, her mind emerging from a cloud, and Ruby guessed she was trying to place her face.

  ‘It’s me, Ruby. Your daughter.’

  ‘Of course you’re my daughter; who else would you be?’ Joy said, her voice edged with irritation.

  Ruby nodded, allowing her to save face. It made her happy to know her mother still possessed her pride and the stubborn streak that passed with it. A Preston trait that Ruby also bore. But the truth was, Ruby could be anyone. Some days her mother called her Gertie, after her deceased sister, or Alice, after a girl she went to school with. All shadows from the past, more alive than the people that infiltrated her presence today. The present had little room in Joy’s clouded mind. Ruby glanced down at her mother’s sparkly red pumps and smiled. She had never given in to uniformity, not even here, and always had something red about her person. A flower, a hair clip, a scarf with poppies, or a narrow red belt to hug her waist. Her father used to call her his little Robin Redbreast, and it was a memory she treasured. Ruby dreaded the day she would forget to wear it. Most days Ruby wore something red too: a dash of a red lipstick, or a cherry red brooch on her blazer lapel. It was a silly game, she had told herself, but she found it hard to let her solidarity go.

  ‘So Mum, how have you been?’ Ruby asked, preparing for a journey back into her childhood. There was no point in trying to discuss current affairs or her own life. It confused Joy, and the only safe place was firmly in the past. It didn’t matter to Ruby, as all she wanted to hear was her mother’s voice. Each visit was being transported back in time to when Joy felt most useful in the world.

  ‘I’ve just mopped that,’ Joy said, pointing to the lino with her shoe. ‘Don’t you go getting it dirty now.’

  It was spotlessly clean and had a criss-cross pattern which was similar to the one in their kitchen where her mother had spent most of her time. Ruby’s early memories were of that lino, as she played racing cars with Nathan, the next door neighbour’s son. Their games were played to the backdrop of their mothers chatting at the kitchen table.

  As Joy spoke of those days, Ruby indulged herself in the memory, becoming five years old all over again.

  * * *

  She remembered how the wheels of her favourite toy car used to squeak as she pressed them against the bumpy linoleum. Back then, she liked the octagonal brown patterns. In her five-year-old mind it was Brands Hatch, and she was winning in a two car race against her best friend, Nathan. He used to make her wince, vocalising his pretend brakes, screeching as he took the corners. Ruby smiled at the memory; the way Nathan called her Wuby, and how she’d screw up her face as she elongated her words, saying Ruuubbby, over and over, until he pronounced it properly.

  Ruby listened as her mother spoke of those days, caught up in a dream of yesteryear. ‘I told your dad to bring him into the living room,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘How he survived after losing all that blood is anyone’s guess.’

  Ruby nodded, remembering how she and Nathan had both dropped their cars and ran after their mothers, hanging around the open living room doorway as his father was dragged inside. There was blood, alright. Lots of it: trailing from the hall into the living room, where Jimmy Crosby lay. Nathan had tried to step inside, and Ruby shot out an arm, pulling him back by his knitted tank top until he was back in line with her. She gave him a stern look, pressing a finger to her mouth. The doorway was like an invisible barrier to her mother. Whenever anything was going on, she never noticed Ruby until she put a foot over the threshold, then she was banished to her room, or told to leave and close the door behind her. Even back then, Ruby thought like a detective, her eyes growing wide as she located the source of the blood. Jimmy Crosby’s smart black suit was soaked with it, and Nathan’s mother barged in, pushing people aside like skittles as she searched for the injury. ‘Oh Gawd, what’s happened now?’ she squealed, her East End accent filling the room. ‘Who’s done this to you, Jimmy?’

  The words echoed in Ruby’s memory, and she flinched as her mother grasped her forearm. Joy was too wrapped up in the past to understand it was a flashback, and the anxiety in her eyes was the same now as it had been in their little East London terrace house all those years ago. ‘I’ve got to call the doctor,’ she said. ‘Dr Tanner. Nobody else but Dr Tanner. He doesn’t ask questions, you see.’

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ Ruby reassured her. ‘Everything’s OK.’

  ‘Best you get some towels all the same,’ Joy said.

  Ruby nodded, taking her mother’s hand. She remembered how she had taken Nathan’s dimpled hand and pressed it against the flock wallpaper in the hall, telling him not to move, while panic ensued in the living room.

  Joy had stopped talking now, but the memory burned like a branding iron in the back of Ruby’s mind. She only ha
d to touch upon it and she was back there: her father sweating through his shirt as he pressed the towels down on the knife wound, the cotton almost immediately turning from white to bright red. She heard Mrs Crosby’s high-pitched shrieking as she asked her husband over and over who was responsible. And Nathan, his blue eyes as deep as the sea, still standing with his hand pressed against the wallpaper because Ruby had told him not to move.

  Ruby threaded her fingers around her mother’s hand. Her skin was so soft it was almost translucent, and she felt a lump rise to her throat. Her eyes roamed over the network of blue veins growing ever more visible. She didn’t want to think of her mother getting old and dying because then she would truly be all alone.

  ‘It’s dinner time now,’ the nurse gently spoke. Harmony was a larger-than-life Jamaican lady with a springy black weave and a smile that lit up the room. She spoke in a happy sing-song voice which suited her title perfectly. ‘Would you like to bring your mother to the dining room?’

  Ruby turned over her left hand and checked the time. It had gone seven, and as usual the carers had allowed her to stay beyond the allocated visiting time.

  ‘I want you to bring me,’ Joy said, pointing at Harmony. ‘Not her.’ She jabbed a thumb back at her daughter.

  ‘Now, Mrs Preston, is dat any way to treat your flesh and blood?’ Harmony said, but Ruby waved the words away.

  ‘It’s OK, really. I’ll walk with you. I’ve got to get back to work now anyway.’ The first time her mother stopped recognising her was devastating, but Ruby had learned to cope with it as Joy’s lucidity floated in and out.