The Perfect Girl

by Lorna Dounaeva

  He watched as Dylan downed his wine and poured himself another.

  “Seriously, Dylan. When are you going to stop drinking?”

  “Never.”

  “But you’re making yourself ill. Don’t you know you could die?”

  A sulky look came over Dylan’s face. “I don’t need this tonight. This is supposed to be a party.”

  He started to walk off, but Jock grabbed his arm. “Just tell me how bad it is.”

  The sulky expression turned to anger. “Have you been Googling my condition?”

  “Of course I have and I’m horrified. Don’t you know what you’re doing to yourself?”

  “You only live once, right?” Dylan attempted a smile and failed. “My doctor says I need a liver transplant.”

  Jock slumped down on the bench. “God!” He had known it was bad, but not this bad. “How long’s the waiting list?”

  Dylan sat down beside him, still nursing his wine in his hands. “They’re not going to give me one, Jock. I drink.”

  “So you’re just going to keep on drinking?”

  “I might as well, mightn’t I?”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes until one of the girls Dylan had been with earlier stomped over and demanded he change the music. Jock got up and walked down to the bow of the boat. He leaned over the side, enjoying the gentle breeze.

  “Do you miss her?” Angie asked, appearing at his side.

  For a split second, he didn’t know who she was talking about.

  “It’s OK; I miss her, too,” she said, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck to prevent it from blowing away in the breeze.

  His memory of Sapphire was fading, replaced by snippets from the newspapers and headshots printed by the press. None of them represented the bold, confident woman he remembered, the woman who made everything stop just by walking into the room. But it was different now. She had become some kind of an enigma, a puzzle that nagged at him to be solved.

  Angie gazed intently into her wine glass, as if it were a crystal ball.

  “She loved a good party,” she said. “Loves, I mean,” she said quickly. “Why do I keep doing that?”

  “I think you’re forgetting this is a party,” Dylan said, wandering over with a bottle of wine in his hand. “More white, Angie?”

  “Go on then.”

  She turned back to Jock. “Come on, let’s mingle.”

  They walked over to where Simon was standing with Bronwyn.

  “Simon was just explaining the impact of climate change to me,” Bronwyn said, her eyes a little too wide.

  “Sounds riveting,” Dylan said, topping up her glass. At the rate he was going, everyone would be trolleyed within an hour.

  Bronwyn brought the glass to her lips. “What shall we drink to?”

  “How about Sapphire?” said Simon.

  “Sapphire doesn’t even drink,” Angie pointed out.

  “Much like myself,” Dylan said and cracked up at his own joke.

  Bronwyn laughed, but Angie and Simon exchanged worried looks. Jock wondered if they knew how bad it had got.

  “That’s better,” Dylan said. “Now, who wants to dance? I’ve got a ripping Madonna CD.”

  “What’s a CD?” Bronwyn asked.

  Dylan palmed himself in the face. “Oh God, I’m getting old!”

  That didn’t stop him from showing off his dated dance moves, though.

  “Come on, Jock!” he called. “Get on the dance floor.”

  “Not me,” he protested. “I’ve got two left feet.” Not to mention the fact that he was stone-cold sober.

  “Same here,” Simon said. “Besides, drinking and boats don’t mix. It you look at the statistics–”

  “Man, I wish you’d both lighten up,” Dylan complained, topping up everyone’s glasses again.

  “Hey, I’ve barely started the last one!” Angie protested.

  “Really?” Dylan looked genuinely surprised.

  “Maybe you’d better slow down a bit,” she said softly.

  Simon glanced at the huge arsenal of drinks. “Yeah, you don’t want to run out.”

  “I take it the loo’s downstairs?” Jock asked, after his third lemonade.

  “I usually just aim over the side,” Dylan replied.

  “But there must be an actual loo?”

  “Downstairs,” he conceded. “If you’re going down there, can you grab some crisps?”

  “OK.” At least he hadn’t asked him to bring up more booze.

  He climbed down the narrow stairway and dropped into the cabin. He really did need the loo, but he was also curious to see Dylan’s new living quarters. He found a small galley kitchen and a cosy little lounge area, which he supposed must double as a bedroom. He looked about for the loo, but all he could see was a cupboard. He tried the handle. The tiny cubicle doubled as both a loo and a shower. He pushed his way in. It wouldn’t have been quite such a tight squeeze if it weren’t for the fact that the door opened inwards, forcing him to press himself against the wall so that he could close it behind him.

  How does Dylan live like this? He wondered, as he rinsed his hands in the doll-sized basin. There was no towel, so he had to dry his hands on his trousers. He was just about to pull the door handle when he heard voices in the cabin – a man and a woman. He could just make out a little of their conversation – a conversation he clearly wasn’t meant to hear.

  “We should know within a couple of days.”

  “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

  “We have to.”

  Slowly, he opened the door. Simon was unmistakable, even from the back. But what was Gabriella doing here? She and Simon barely knew each other, so what could they be talking about with such intensity? Whatever it was, his instinct told him to leave them to it. He looked at the stairs and tried to calculate whether it was possible to make it up to the top without them noticing. They had their backs to him. With any luck, he could just slip out. He was almost at the stairs when the boat jolted slightly and his hip caught the bookcase. A jar of pennies slid off the counter. He put out his arm to catch it, but only succeeded in sending it clattering to the floor.

  Two heads whipped round. Simon’s eyes met his. His look was deep and penetrating, as if he were trying to suss out how much Jock had overheard, how much of a problem he was going to be. Leaving the pennies on the floor, Jock grabbed the nearest rung of the steps.

  “Wait!” Simon’s voice boomed after him.

  Jock tried to pull himself up the ladder, but it was too late. Simon had him by the ankle.

  25

  Jock glanced back over his shoulder. Simon looked worried rather than angry.

  “Just wait,” he said. “Let me explain.”

  “Then let go of my foot,” Jock demanded, his heart beating hard in his chest. If there were nothing to worry about then why was Simon manhandling him? Simon loosened his grip and Jock moved faster than he had ever moved in his life. Simon was a lot fitter than him, but climbing the narrow staircase was not easy for such a large man. As he struggled with his footing, Jock scurried up the ladder.

  “Hey, you forgot the crisps!” Dylan chastised him, as he hoisted himself onto the deck.

  “Get them yourself, you lazy git!”

  He swung his leg over the side and hopped down onto the riverbank.

  “Hey! Where are you going?” Dylan called after him.

  “Got an early start tomorrow,” he said.

  “But you don’t even work!”

  Jock did not bother to reply. He glanced back one last time and saw Simon’s head pop up above deck. He glanced left and right. There was no way he was going back under that creepy tunnel, so he followed the canal path in the opposite direction, running at first then walking when his side started to ache. He walked further and further out of his way until he reached a pub called the Green Man. The lights were on and there were people smoking and drinking outside, just inches from the canal. He paused to catch his breath. He didn�
�t think Simon was following but he wasn’t taking any chances. He went in and asked the barmaid to call him a taxi.

  “Do it yourself, love,” she said. “There’s a payphone over there. But what’s your rush? Why don’t you buy me a drink first?”

  In the broad light of day, Jock felt like a chump. Simon wouldn’t harm him, especially after what he had done for Anthony. If he weren’t such a coward, he would have just let them explain. Now it was going to be embarrassing and awkward. He had a good mind to leave Fleckford early. He checked his phone and found he had six missed calls from Dylan and a drunken message telling him to get his arse back to the party, then a second one to tell him he was an inconsiderate bastard and a final one to say that he was missing the stripper. Dylan sounded so drunk by then that he probably wouldn’t even remember calling.

  As much as he wanted to just pack up his stuff and go, something was stopping him. He stood in front of Sapphire’s tea shop, debating whether to go in. He couldn’t see Simon in there, but you never knew when he was going to walk in.

  “Morning, Jock. Did you enjoy the party?”

  He almost jumped out of his skin as Gabriella walked up to him. She was still wearing the clothes she had had on the night before.

  “It was OK,” he said.

  “You left really suddenly.”

  “Yeah, I was getting a headache.”

  “You look fine now.”

  “I’m much better, thanks.”

  “Well, are you coming inside?”

  He shrugged. “After you.”

  They went in and sat down. Angie came over right away. “Who’s your friend?” she asked, giving Jock a curious look.

  “This is Gabriella,” he said, taking care to omit her last name.

  “Nice to meet you,” Angie said. “You look kind of familiar.”

  “Yeah, I think I saw you at the party last night.”

  “Ah! So you know Dylan?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Can I get you some tea?”

  “I’ll have a cappuccino, please.”

  “I was surprised to see you last night,” Jock said to Gabriella, as Angie walked off towards the kitchen.

  “Yes, well, I bumped into Dylan and he invited me. It was a really last-minute thing.”

  “Here you go!” Angie set Gabriella’s coffee down in front of her.

  “Hey! This isn’t a cappuccino,” Gabriella objected. “It’s an Americano with squirty cream on top.”

  A hush fell over the surrounding tables. It wasn’t often a customer complained. It just wasn’t done.

  “What’s the difference?” Angie sounded defensive.

  “That’s what you get for ordering coffee in a tea shop,” Jock said, trying to make light of it.

  “No one’s ever complained before,” Angie said, dabbing her eye with the corner of her apron. She flounced off to the kitchen.

  “Oh Lord! Now I’ve gone and upset her,” Gabriella said.

  “I wouldn’t worry. She’ll get over it.”

  She took an experimental sip and pulled a face. “It really is a terrible cappuccino.”

  “You and Simon looked like you were hitting it off last night,” he said, changing the subject. “What were you talking about?”

  “I really can’t remember,” she said, stifling a yawn. “Anything’s fascinating after a few tequilas.”

  “Hmm!” But she hadn’t looked particularly drunk last night. Her refusal to answer his question only fuelled his curiosity. What had she and Simon been up to on Dylan’s boat? Or was he better off not knowing?

  A little while later, Bronwyn appeared with a second cappuccino, which looked much like the first.

  “I’m sorry; I can’t drink this,” Gabriella said. She got to her feet. “I’ll see you later, Jock.”

  He opened up his laptop. He had barely begun typing when someone flung a smelly slipper down on the table in front of him.

  “Morning, Dylan,” he said without looking up.

  “Cinders.”

  “What?”

  “You left the party in a bit of a hurry last night.”

  “Something came up.”

  Dylan plonked himself down beside Jock. “Man! That stinks!”

  “It’s your slipper, isn’t it?” Jock said.

  “Never mind that. What happened?”

  “Did you notice anything going on between Gabriella and Simon?” Jock asked.

  Dylan laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  “You didn’t see them. They were being really secretive and they jumped apart as soon as they saw me.”

  “Maybe they’ve found something,” Dylan mused, “about the May Queen Killer.”

  “But why would they keep it from us?”

  “I don’t know. It’s an interesting development.”

  Dylan closed his eyes and lay his head down on the table.

  “Hey, are you alright?” Jock asked.

  “To be honest with you, I’m experiencing a real katzenjammer.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t drink.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t nag.”

  “Shall I ask Angie for one of her disgusting concoctions?”

  “You do and you’re a dead man.”

  Dylan put his feet up on the chair opposite, knocking something to the ground. He glanced down to see what it was. “Oh, nice handbag, Jock.”

  “Must be Gabriella’s,” Jock said.

  “I’ll put it behind the counter if you like,” Angie said, appearing with one of her hangover cures.

  Dylan winced. “What are you, psychic, woman?”

  “Not really; I saw you walk in, looking like you had blisters for eyeballs. Besides, I know how much you put away last night.”

  “I really don’t–”

  “No arguing. Just drink it.”

  “Tell her to leave me alone, Jock.”

  Jock shook his head. “You take your medicine. I’ll ring Gabriella and tell her about her bag.”

  “Buying yourself something nice?” Dylan asked a bit later, as Jock browsed the web for women’s jewellery.

  “I need to get a birthday present for my sister.”

  “What does she like?”

  “Money.”

  “Then why don’t you just give her some money?”

  “Because then she’ll know how much it cost.”

  “I tell you what: we should go to Pepper Hill. They have some nice little boutiques there, full of the kind of shiny crap women like.”

  “It has to look like quality.”

  “It’s nice stuff. Handmade. Unique.”

  “How are we going to get there? Wasn’t your car repossessed?”

  “Not a problem. It’s on the canal.”

  Jock smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “When do you want to go?”

  “Can we do it tomorrow? I’ve got a meeting with my editor in half an hour.”

  Actually, he was a bit surprised Hilary was coming up to see him again. He had sent her the finished draft of his book the night before. It still needed work, but he was pleased with it and he felt he was ready for her input. But instead of taking a couple of days to get back to him, like she normally did, she had been on the phone first thing in the morning.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, as she walked up to his table.

  She wasn’t smiling. Actually, she looked a bit worried.

  “Well? What did you think?” he asked. “Let me pour you some tea.”

  “I don’t want any tea, thanks. I found it rather disturbing,” she said, smoothing her skirt down over her knees. “I mean, where are you getting your ideas? I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

  Jock smiled. “You’d be surprised.”

  “Why did you kill off the detective’s mother?” she asked.

  “She deserved it.”

  “Don’t you think Audrey would be more upset if her mother was murdered? I find it odd that she just carries on with the investigation.”

>   “She’s not upset,” Jock said. “She’s relieved. Her mother was an awful, spiteful person and now she’s gone, Audrey’s free to get on with her life. Don’t you see? Her mother’s death makes her a better detective. She’s finally allowed to focus.”

  Hilary drew a breath. “But she goes on to shield the killer. Don’t you think that’s overstepping the line? I mean, we’ve been marketing you as the next Agatha Christie. Do you really think Miss Marple would behave this way?”

  “Audrey is not Miss Marple,” he said emphatically. “She’s her own person. It’s time she stepped out from Miss Marple’s shadow.”

  I lean over the fence and fiddle with the lock. It won’t budge.

  “Must be padlocked,” I say with a frown. “You’ll have to climb over, Claire.”

  Obediently, Claire gets the step ladder from the boot and climbs over. It must be a bit of a drop the other side, but she manages it OK.

  “Come on, open the gate,” I say with impatience. “Before someone sees.”

  “I’m trying!”

  I start to look for an alternative point of entry, when she finally opens the gate.

  “Don’t forget to put the ladder back in the boot,” I tell her, as I walk inside.

  I set the box down behind the shed. Nobody can see us there. There are tall hedges on either side of the garden and the curtains are still drawn.

  “No movement from inside?” I ask when Claire returns.

  “Maybe she’s still asleep?”

  “Old people rarely lie in,” I tell her.

  “Then why are the curtains closed?”

  “She’s probably still in her dressing gown.”

  We carry the box down the garden towards the house.

  “How are we going to get in?” she asks, as we reach the back door.

  “Aha!” I say, producing the key from my pocket.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Let’s just say the opportunity fell in my lap.”

  As quietly as I can, I unlock the door and step into the kitchen. The wall is tiled in a disgusting shade of mustard yellow, with olive-green cabinets and hot-pink door knobs. There are definite signs of life: the smell of recently burnt toast, a tell-tale coffee ring on one of the surfaces and a pile of dirty plates next to the sink. The TV blares from the living room. Claire sets the box down on the kitchen floor and we peer in. In complete contrast to the kitchen, this room looks dated, with a brick chimney place and portraits of ancestors on the walls. And she’s in there, watching the news.