by June Whyte
“Dead is dead, Tanya. There are no degrees.”
She stared at me as though I was a stranger. As though I wasn’t the one who held her hand and helped her breathe and push and swear through the birth of her baby the night her lazy, useless, piece of shit, now ex-husband played poker with the boys instead of attending the birthing ceremony. “Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you kill him?” Her eyes widened ever further. “Oh, shit! He raped you, didn’t he? You had to kill him in self-defense.”
“Tanya…” Where were the soothing words of comfort? Where was the offer to help ditch the bloody sheets? “I didn’t kill Matt. How could you accuse me of doing such a thing?”
I let my aching head drop onto the cold laminated table top with a thump. If my best friend thought I’d killed Matthew Turner what hope was there of convincing the police of my innocence? If only I could tell her about the killer’s phone call. But my bowels went wonky at the thought of that psycho slicing into my face like a soup vegetable.
Tanya leant over and grabbed the vodka bottle by the neck. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It’s just this whole dead Matt thing. It’s freaking me out.” She poured herself another shot. “Freaking me out big time!” She emptied the fiery liquid down her throat, spluttered and gasped, and poured another. “And what about whoever stabbed Matt? What if he’s holed up in the house waiting to pounce on us? What if he finds another knife?” She covered her mouth with one hand and barreled to her feet. “Oh, Jesus! Do you think we should hide your kitchen utensils?”
Without waiting for an answer she was off again like the steam from a boiling kettle. “No, no, we better not do that. If he can’t find a knife he might find something worse to kill us with.”
I blinked up at my best friend who was supposed to be comforting me. “Tanya, would it really matter what he used if we ended up dead anyway?” I shook my head. “What am I saying? If whoever murdered Matt wanted me dead I’d be upstairs going stiff and cold right now.”
“You’re right. Of course.” Tanya flopped into her chair again, picked up a cardboard coaster from the table and fanned her face. “So, have you rung the police?”
Both hands on the table I pushed my chair back. “I’ll do it now. I was just waiting until you—”
“Don’t ring the police.”
The kitchen spun as I jerked my head up and gave her a disbelieving stare. Did Tanya know about the killer’s phone call?
“What I mean is,” she continued, evidently unsure of her ground, “we could er... you know, get rid of the body, so we don’t get involved.”
I let out a breath. No, she didn’t know about the phone call. She was just on a different wave length to me.
“Look, I’m not saying we drop Matt in the river, or leave him in the middle of the railway tracks. Nothing tacky like that.” She took another swig of vodka before continuing. “Hell, Matt was a good guy. Pathetic, but still, a good guy. All I’m suggesting is we drive him home and quietly leave him on his front doorstep.” She shrugged one purple-clad shoulder as if to signify the simplicity of the operation. “Then no one knows he was murdered in your bed.”
“Yeah, but—”
“After we arrange him neatly, you know, with his hands covering certain naked limp and ugly appendages, we come back here, clean your bedroom and no one will know he’s been here.”
“Yeah, but—”
“That way, one of Matt’s neighbors finds the body and rings the police and you’re in the clear.”
I hesitated. Her plan did sound tempting. “Well, I suppose we could, but…”
Something about the image of dragging Matt down the stairs, his head banging reproachfully on every step, of jamming his stiffening body parts into the boot of his car, made my stomach clench in protest.
Tempting—but no cigar.
Instead, I patted my best friend’s hand. She meant well. Boy, did she mean well. “Thanks for the offer Tan, but we’d better give the Thelma and Louise act a miss. There’s no way we can do that to poor Matt.”
“Why? Poor Matt wouldn’t feel a thing.”
I shivered at the reality. “I know, but it doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“Your call.”
“Talking of calls...” I stood up and moved toward the phone.
“Anyway, how come Matt was in your bed at all?” Tanya followed me into the lounge room, drink in hand. “You were supposed to dump the guy.”
“I did try to put him off but he was like a damn puppy. You know all eyes and tongue and little-boy grin.”
“Little-boy grin? God, Kat, you’re twenty-eight years old. If you want to catch areal man it’s time you started playing with the grown-ups.”
I sighed. Why couldn’t I say no?
My mother’s words bounced censoriously around in my head: “Katrina McKinley, you’re the world’s biggest pushover. If a guy in a hoodie told you he needed money to pay for his dear dad’s heart operation you’d direct him to the nearest bank then offer him your car keys.”
And once again, I’d been comprehensively sucked in. Not only had Matthew Turner talked me into training his incessantly howling greyhound—he’d also talked his way into my bed.
“Easy for you to say,” I growled, “but I don’t have a lot ofreal men in my little black book at the moment.” And then it hit me. “This is my fault Matt’s dead, isn’t it? I should have refused to let him in.”
“Not necessarily.” Tanya shook her head so hard she almost fell over. I glanced at the vodka bottle. Almost empty. “Whoever killed Matt wasn’t worried about his location,” she went on, righting herself. “He’d have stabbed him in his own bed if he hadn’t come here.”
A silence followed.
Tanya, who seemed to be studying a picture of the indestructible roadrunner on the front of her jam jar glass, finally looked up.
“Kat…” Her voice scraped against her throat as she spoke. “What if the police charge youwith Matt’s murder? What if they take you away to jail?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would they charge me?”
Tanya’s face twisted in an apologetic grimace. “Well, you were in the house with Matt at the time.”
Oh God. She had a point. My heart hammered in staccato at the thought of me, black-eyed criminals, and a cold jail cell. “But I had no reason to stab Matt,” I croaked, my voice struggling to make its way through my tightened throat.
“I know that, but the police…”
Tanya stopped and slurped another large gulp of vodka, her eyes blinking at me as if she’d suddenly lost her train of thought.
Unable to stand still, I began to pace up and down the room, afraid not only of the murderer’s threats but of what might happen when the police arrived.
While I paced, Tanya drained her glass, sucked in a deep breath and reached for the phone. “Okay, here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna ring the police and tell them you didn’t do it and I’m gonna…” Waving the phone, she staggered a couple of steps and gazed around, her expression confused. “Whoa…I don’t feel so good.”
I removed the empty glass from her hand and placed it on the coffee table. “Perhaps it’s time to ease up on the medicinal alcohol, Tan,” I said and snaffled the phone from her limp fingers. “This always happens when you drink too quickly.”
“I know. I know. But hey, in case you didn’t notice, there’s a dead body in your bed.”
“Yes, Idid notice.”
Tanya slid slowly down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. “And I’m sonot into dead bodies.”
I knew exactly how she felt.
Taking a deep breath, I dialed the police. “I need to report a murder,” I told whoever answered the 000 call. While “whoever” wandered off to fetch someone higher up the food chain, I joined Tanya on the floor.
By the time Detective Inspector Garry Adams came on the line and introduced himself we were both sprawled on the black-and-white carpet tiles, backs to t
he wall.
“Are you the woman who rang to report a murder?” he shouted over Tanya’s rendition, his voice a lump of steel crashing against a galvanized iron fence.
“Er…yes. But it wasn’t me, Detective Inspector. I didn’t do it. I didn’t stab Matt.”
“Calm down, madam, and tell me exactly what happened.”
If the vodka had been closer I’d have drained the bottle and joined Tanya in oblivion right about then. Instead, I had to convince this detective of my innocence.
I drew in a deep breath and let him have it. “See, I’ve got this dead friend called Mathew Turner in my bed and I don’t know what to do with him—or how he got that way. Okay, I admit he was a bit of a damp squib while we were having sex, but hey, that was okay. Well actually it wasn’t really okay because it only lasted ten seconds, but all I’m saying is it wasn’t a dirty great knife sort of not okay…I mean I didn’t stab him just because he rated a minus five in bed.”
Okay, I know. I was jabbering. But how else was I supposed to get my innocence across before we got onto specifics?
“Ms. McKinley.” DI Adams broke in, his voice rock hard. “Thais your name?”
“Yes, but—”
“And you are ringing from?”
“Um—” My gaze slid across my comfy sofa and two chairs and my newly purchased LCD digital television. I frowned. “I’m ringing from my lounge room.”
“Of course. And your address is?”
“My address is...” I bit my lower lip and forced my brain to concentrate. “My address is eighty eight, Downes Road, Two Wells.”
“We’re on our way.”
With that DI Adams hung up.
The wall at our backs, Tanya and I sat and stared at our feet. While my best friend gazed at the red leather straps on her designer shoes, I concentrated on the slimy thing adorning the knuckle of my big toe. Was it a gherkin or a piece of pickle? Could even have been a regurgitated slice of tomato.
Tanya was the first to break the silence. “Who do you figure killed Matt?”
“No idea.”
“What about that weasel-faced guy with the long beard and big ears? You know the bloke who punched Matt in the stomach at the track last night.”
“That was Matt’s Dad.”
“Right.” Tanya went back to studying her shoes for a few moments. “Well, what about the big bruiser who lives next door to Matt? What’s his name? Pipsqueak?”
“Peewee.”
“Yeah, that’s the guy. I heard Matt telling one of his mates that Peewee chucked a brick through his window and threatened to do him in if he didn’t stop his noisy freaking dog from keeping him awake at night.”
“They came to an understanding,” I muttered. “Matt talkeme into training his noisy freaking dog so his neighbors could get some sleep. That was right before I let him come inside my house and he ended up dead in my bed.”
“Riiight.”
3
A thunderous knock rocked the house. I cranked my head carefully around to blink at Tanya.
“Did you lock the front door, Tan?”
She shook her head.
As neither of us had the energy or inclination to leave the comfort of the floor, the police let themselves in.
The first one shouldered his way through the lounge room door and stood regarding us with one of those disparaging for-this-I-left-a-warm-bed scowl. He reminded me of that PI character, Columbo, from the eighties television series shown occasionally on Fox Classics. Short. Scruffy. Long, daggy overcoat. Five o’clock shadow worn like a badge of honor.
“Ms. McKinley,” the Columbo-lookalike said bearing down on us with his shuffling gait. “I’m Detective Inspector Adams. Did you ring about a murder?”
“Yes, I did.” I grabbed a deep breath in an effort to focus. “It’s my friend, Matt. We were sort of in bed together and—and—when I woke up—he was dead.” I sniffed, wiped my nose with a scrunched up tissue, before continuing. “He’d been stabbed.”
“And whoever killed your friend Matt didn’t stab you?”
Was this guy seriously blind? I gave him a no otherwise-I-wouldn’t-be-sitting-here-talking-to-you-now, eye roll and shook my head.
“Well, in that case,” he went on, hard black eyes staring into mine so intently they were escalating my headache, “can you explain how an intruder entered your bedroom, stabbed your lover and then escaped? All without waking you?”
I pulled my coat down further over my bare legs and tried to block out the more difficult questions he’d brought up. “Matthew Turner wasn’t my lover.”
“No?”
“He was merely a friend.”
Detective Inspector Adams didn’t comment, just raised his thick dark eyebrows a couple of centimeters.
“And I-I guess I didn’t wake up when it happened because I was tired.”
He just kept that cynical eyebrow thing going. “Oh?”
“If you’d been up since five in the morning training a team of greyhounds and didn’t get to bed ’til midnight you’d be wiped out too.”
“Not too wiped out to hear the person beside me getting stabbed to death.”
Exactly. He’d hit on the piece of the puzzle I couldn’t figure out either. Together with the other stray segment which went something like, how close had I come to being used as a pig-sticker too? In an attempt to clear my befuddled brain I took a deep breath and let it out in one long drawn-out sigh.
And then it struck me.
“You know, whoever killed Matt must have snuck into the bedroom while I was playing Tchaikovsky to the greyhounds.”
His eyes glazed over and I detected a slight tick in his left cheek. “Let me get this straight. You were outside playing an instrument to your dogs while your friend was inside being murdered?”
“It’s not an instrument.” I shook my head. “All I had to do was press the buzzer at the bottom of the stairs.” His eyes remained glazed, so I went on, eager to fill him in on the finer details of the situation. “See, this salesman, George someone or other, who I’d read about on the notice board at the Gawler dog track, set this gizmo up inside the house for me. When my dogs bark, all I do is go downstairs to the landing and press a buzzer. Immediately a Tchaikovsky CD starts playing in the dog-shed.”
“I see,” he said in that tone of voice that’s really saying, yeah-yeah-pull-the-other-one.
“It really works,” I assured him, intent on proving my point to this granite-nosed cop with the hard black eyes. “It definitely stopped my dogs barking when they woke me at around three o’clock this morning.”
“Are you trying to say you weren’t in bed when your friend was murdered?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s the only explanation.”
“So it was only later, when you returned, that you discovered he was dead?”
“That’s right.” Thank God we’d got that all sorted out.
“Was the bedroom light on when you came back in the room?”
“No.”
“Well how did you know your friend had been stabbed?”
“I was…um…like, feeling around and…um…”
Heat spread across my cheeks and charged down my neck. Okay, I was way past the age of consent but no one likes to have their pathetic sexual exploits laid out on the table and examined in minute detail. While fanning my face, I watched a second plainclothes detective enter the room and walk across to Columbo. They began a whispered conversation in which the only two words I heard clearly were,naked and dead.
The second detective could have been cast as the main character in the next James Bond movie. Poised, good looking and somewhere in his mid-forties, this guy had clearly been born with a magnetism that drew women to him like fish to white bait.
“Good evening, ladies. Or should I say, good morning?”
The vision, dressed in an immaculate silvery grey suit with a pale blue shirt and darker blue tie, smiled. Every gleaming, perfectly aligned tooth sparkled and glinted like an advert
for some super-duper, new-age toothpaste.
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Tad Stevens,” he said, stretching one beautifully manicured hand toward me.
Inhaling his spicy cologne like a wine connoisseur, I reached up to meet the proffered appendage. But before my sweaty fingers could adhere to his cool flesh, Tanya gave a gasping, choking sound, staggered to her feet and snatched the hand out from under my nose.
“Hi, I’m Tanya and I’m divorced.”
I could tell by the way her eyelashes fluttered she was imaging herself and Inspector Gorgeous alone on a desert island together. There’d be a two-man tent, enough coconuts to keep them alive for a couple of years and no mobile phones or rescue boats to spoil the scenery.
Still clutching his hand like she wanted to chop it off at the wrist and stash it in her pocket, Tanya plastered a grin on her face. I don’t know whether it was the grin or the frenetically fluttering eyelashes, but both men reacted as though she’d produced a weapon of mass destruction from her waistband. Columbo whipped out a set of handcuffs while DCI Stevens wrestled his fingers from her grasp and took several hurried steps backwards.
“Andyou are?” Columbo swung the flashing hardware in front of Tanya’s button nose.
“Tanya Ashton” she squeaked, her eyes seemingly hypnotized by the swinging cuffs. “I’m Kat’s friend.”
“And you are here because?” This time his supercilious eyebrows almost collided with his hairline.
I scrambled to my feet, propelled myself off the wall. “Tanya’s here because I rang and asked her to come.”
“Before you bothered to phone us?”
“Hey, I was scared.”
“All the more reason to ring us first, Ms. McKinley.”
Columbo was starting to irritate me. Big time. Although his boss had paid his respects to the deceased, Short Dark and Scruffy hadn’t moved from the kitchen. “I’m sorry if my actions don’t meet with your approval,” I told him in my best schoolmarm voice. “But I suggest you stop with the verbal assault and go look in the bedroom upstairs.”
“Verbal assault?” He repeated, eyes narrowing to slits.
“Because that’s where you’ll find the victim, Matthew Turner.”