'His divorce was through months ago, so he won't be able to get out of it,' Hilda laughed.
Carol frowned. 'Who are you talking about, Mr Richards?'
'No dear, Mr Frogton, didn't you know, it's his baby.'
Whatever Hilda said after that, Carol didn't hear; she was hardly able to stand upright her legs were shaking so badly.
'Happy Christmas,' Hilda called out as the door closed, missing Carol sinking to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks.
No matter how many times she tried to persuade herself that Hilda could be mistaken, she knew it was the truth. He had betrayed her, kept this bitch and the fucking baby a secret. He had lied to her, the bastard had egged her on, teased her with his kisses and smiles.
All over the Christmas break, Carol's fury built. She couldn't eat and hardly slept thinking about how she had been betrayed and how she could make him pay for it, and then she began to feel better as the plan started to take shape. She never took off the bracelet; the jingle of the charms was a constant reminder. It was irritating because the goblin's pointed finger kept sticking in her wrist, like a pinprick, but she even liked that; it kept reminding her of his betrayal.
Christmas came and went and she continued working and behaving normally, smiling and helpful. The arrival of Frogton's baby son created quite a party atmosphere in the surgery, everyone congratulating him and bringing gifts for the little boy. Carol bought a small teddy bear, removing the attached warning: 'Not suitable for small babies' as the eyes were glass and attached by a lethal drawing pin. Secretly she had been fermenting in pain and the arrival of the baby made it worse. At long last she was ready; she would make Peter Frogton pay for his betrayal with his life. She was sure he had bought the fucking bracelet for his whore, she'd probably disliked it, some of the charms were horrible and the gold heart didn't even open.
She left for work at exactly the same time as she usually did. It was only a twenty-minute walk to the clinic and today was an early start. It was always early on Tuesdays and Thursdays as that was when the more complex operations were done. When they were completed, the clinic would open for other business at nine. Mrs Dart the cleaner wasn't given keys, so Carol had to let her in.
Carol had spent weeks preparing for this morning. It was imperative that she was above suspicion. By this time Carol had a rudimentary knowledge of the sedatives used for the animals and she had decided to soak a rag in halothane, as well as lacing Frogton's morning coffee with the Halcyon tablets she had been prescribed for insomnia. In preparation, Carol had been stealing small amounts of halothane from the cabinet for weeks.
Carol had specifically chosen this morning, as there was a Dalmatian, a Rottweiler and a Jack Russell to be put to sleep. The veterinary mortuary van would call for the collection of the animals' carcasses before surgery. The animals would be placed in heavy black plastic bags with their weight and a description attached and then carried on a small gurney to the rear entrance, ready to be driven to the incinerator. There were occasionally grieving owners who asked for their pet's ashes but Carol knew the three that morning had no owner's requests. She was safe, and she had already made an excellent copy of the death certificate for a Great Dane called Felix who had been put to sleep a month earlier. There would be four bodies removed to the incinerator from the Miles and Frogton Veterinary clinic: three canines and one human.
The careful planning of the murder had given Carol a strength of will she never realized she had. She was sure there was no hint of her turmoil, her fury or her pain. She was certain that no one guessed her intentions, least of all Peter Frogton. She was just as certain that she was going to get away with it. It was all in the planning and she had spent night after night making lists, destroying them, only to begin another the next night until she knew everything by heart.
Walk to work.
Open surgery, check operation room.
Prepare Peter Frogton's coffee.
Present morning operations.
Brew fresh coffee, wash out Frogton's mug.
Wait for the drugs to take effect.
Cover his mouth with the soaked rag.
Prepare animals for mortuary.
Kill Peter Frogton.
Place his body in mortuary bag.
Open rear door.
Place bags on gurney.
Re-lock the back door.
Open mail.
Let in Mrs Dart.
Get ready for morning surgery.
Let out Mrs Dart.
Open front door ready for morning surgery.
The lie she would tell Hilda had changed a few times. First Peter had been taken ill, then he had been called away on an emergency, then he had given her the perfect reason for him not being there. As he was now a proud father and had not taken time off at Christmas, he and his 'whore' were going on holiday. The bitch had already left for their rented villa. Frogton had arranged to leave straight after surgery; it was perfect. The practice would be run in his absence by Miles Richards. The fact that Frogton was not returning, not ever, would therefore not become an issue for two weeks and she had booked her own two-week vacation to begin during Frogton's absence. Even if the police were called, they would find no motive, no evidence. Peter Frogton had just disappeared off the face of the earth. Carol had even watched a television documentary detailing just how many people do disappear without trace and the amount was astonishing. She also watched all the television cop shows and knew it was imperative she leave no trace of what had happened, so cleaning up had to be done very methodically.
Carol was on hand for the disposal of the two large dogs and Frogton helped her carry them to the rear door for collection. He was tired, complaining of being kept up all night by his new baby, and couldn't wait to get away. She watched as he sipped his coffee; he didn't even taste the Halcyon. The small Jack Russell was carried from his cage. He had been sedated during the night but there was little hope that he would recover, so he was quickly injected and died peacefully on the table. Frogton was removing his rubber gloves ready to scrub and wash his hands at the sink; as he bent forwards he stumbled and then held on to the sink with his hands, leaning forwards.
'Christ, I feel terrible,' he muttered.
Carol moved behind him with the hammer. She hit him on the back of his skull, hard. He gasped, turned towards her, his face registering total shock, even more so when he saw her draw back her hand with the hammer ready for another strike. He made a grab for her wrist but she kicked him to his knees and she hit him again on the side of his temple. She then dragged his body to lie face forwards and covered his gasping mouth with the rag soaked in halothane; he gasped a few times, then lay still. She'd used the entire contents of two phials – one would have been enough but she wanted to make sure, very sure, he was dead. She had to wait fifteen minutes, her hand pressed to his throat, a towel left over his face. Feeling for his pulse and satisfied he was dead, she stripped off his clothes; first his blue tunic, then his T-shirt and trousers, his socks, shoes and underpants. She placed everything carefully into a carrier bag, then she bent over his naked body and tied his hands behind his back, looping the rope round his ankles and drawing his legs almost back to his arms. She then rolled his body over and began to ease the thick black bag round him, securing it at the top. For safety she wrapped a second bag round him, this she tied with strong thick string, and then attached the label. 'Great Dane. FELIX, aged ten years. Owner Mrs Thompson,' and the address. She dragged the bag to the back door and propped it up beside the two other dead animals.
Carol was sweating as she returned to the table to lift the Jack Russell's corpse and stuff it into the black bag ready for collection. She froze when the doorbell rang and rang; whoever it was kept their hand on the bell. Carol took deep breaths, wiped her face and straightened out her uniform.
The woman was peering into the surgery, her hands cupped to see inside. Carol faced her.
'We're not open yet.'
'I have to see Mr Fr
ogton, it's urgent.'
'He's not here, you just missed him. He's gone . . .'
'You have to let me in. PLEASE, open the door, please I have to talk to you, talk to someone. OPEN THE DOOR.'
Carol had no option but to unlock the door. 'What do you want?'
'It's about Jack, I have to see him.'
'Who?'
'My dog, I have to see him, he's here.'
'What dog?'
'Jack, the Jack Russell, my sister brought him in two days ago, he'd been run over. A Jack Russell, I have to see him, she said they were putting him to sleep, I have to see him.'
'I'm sorry you can't.'
'But you don't understand, I've been away, my sister was looking after him, I have to see him. IT'S IMPORTANT, I HAVE GOT TO SEE HIM.'
'But you can't.'
'Why not, he's here isn't he?'
'Well yes, he was, but I'm sorry . . .'
'Is he dead?'
'I'm afraid so, we couldn't save him, his injuries were too . . .'
'Can I see him?'
'Pardon?'
'Is he still here?'
Carol was in a state; she couldn't get rid of the hysterical woman who was now sitting in one of the surgery chairs, crying, blubbing and sobbing loudly, saying over and over that she just had to see him.
'Did he have a brown right ear or was it his left?'
'Pardon?' Carol snapped.
'My Jack Russell had a brown left ear; Battersea Dogs Home said they've got a Jack Russell stray, handed in two days ago. It could be Jack, do you see? Maybe my sister brought in the wrong dog. They don't open until ten, so if I could just see the one you've got here, it might not be my Jack, he's run off before. I think he was trying to get to my house, so maybe the dog that got hit by the bus isn't mine. He wasn't wearing a collar, was he? My sister said he didn't have a collar on. My Jack had a collar.'
Carol checked her watch; any minute now the mortuary van would be here.
'Wait here please,' she said, and hurried into the operating section. She had to stand for a moment to get her breath, then she opened the bag, lifted out the Jack Russell, snatched the towel from the floor and carried him into the surgery.
'Oh my God! Oh my God! He's dead. Is he dead?'
'Yes, Mr Frogton put him to sleep this morning.'
'But you said he wasn't here.'
'I said he'd just left. Now is this your Jack Russell or not?'
The woman peeked at the dog curled in the bloody towel and then howled, 'No, no it's not mine, that's not Jack, oh thank God, thank God. You see he's got a black ear, not brown, my Jack's ear is brown. Oh thank you, thank you, I'm sorry to have bothered you.'
Carol, with the dead dog in her arms, ushered the woman out and then locked the door. She kept on repeating to herself that it was all right, everything was all right, she was just fifteen minutes behind schedule.
The mortuary man arrived two minutes later. Carol had to help him carry the three bags to his van. She had not had time to put the Jack Russell into his mortuary bag or fill in the form, but rather than delay getting rid of Frogton she decided she'd take the dead dog and Frogton's clothes to the local dump.
The mortuary van driver signed them out. The Rottweiler, the Dalmatian and, lastly, heaving up the body of Frogton, he signed for the Great Dane.
'They don't have long lives, do they, these big dogs?'
'No, their hearts are quite small,' she said with relief as the doors closed.
'I've got fifteen to collect all over London this morning. Do you want any ashes brought back?' he asked, heading for the driving seat.
'No, no ashes required,' she said, wishing he'd drive off and let her get down to cleaning up and getting rid of the clothes and the bloody Jack Russell.
Carol watched the van drive off, then returned to the final clearing up. She washed down the table, took off her soiled uniform and stuffed it into the same bag with Frogton's clothes and the dead Jack Russell. She then went to the sink and cleaned up the blood from Frogton, where he'd bled from the hammer blows. She wiped it clean, replaced the hammer with the tools in the back room, returned and gave the room a once over with her eyes.
'Shit,' she snapped.
The charm bracelet was just beneath the sink; somehow when Frogton grabbed her he must have broken the chain. On her hands and knees she snatched it up and checked all the charms were there. There was one missing, the fucking goblin.
'Fuck, fuck, where is the fucking thing?'
She sat back on her heels, her eyes roaming the room, but she couldn't see it. With the flat of her hand she felt under every surface, on top, down the sides; she began to pant with fear. The charm was not in the operating room. She even went back to reception, searched every inch of it, then back to the operating room and re-searched but there was no effing goblin. The reception phone rang, jangling her nerves. She snatched it up.
'Yes?'
She listened. It was Battersea Dogs Home; they had received a call from a very distraught woman who had lost her Jack Russell.
'Yes, she came here, then she left; it wasn't her Jack Russell, it was another Jack Russell.'
'Did it have a collar on it?' asked the persistent kennel maid at the end of the line.
'No, it was hit by a bus, it had internal injuries and Mr Frogton put it to sleep.'
'Could you describe it?'
'What?'
'We have a young man here who's lost his Jack Russell. He says it's got a black ear, on the left. Is that the one you have there? Only the stray we've got here has a brown ear, brown left ear.'
'Yes, it's got a black ear and a sort of brown spot over its right eye,' Carol snapped.
To Carol's fury she was left waiting as the kennel maid went to talk to the young man. When she came back she asked if the dog was still at the surgery.
'Yes, it's still here.'
'He's coming right over, can you keep it there?'
'It's dead.'
'Yes, you said, but he wants to make sure it's his dog, and if it didn't have a collar and it fits his description . . .'
Carol sighed. 'No. No, I'm sorry, he can't come here.'
'Is that you, Carol?'
'What?'
'This is Barbara, remember? We worked together? I knew you'd got a job at the clinic. I didn't recognize your voice. Is it OK for the boy to come over, he's so upset, Carol. CAROL?'
Carol closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 'Yes, he can see it, but he had better come over right now.'
Carol slammed down the phone. 'Fucking dog, the fucking stupid fucking dog.'
Carol checked her watch; her whole schedule was off now with this fucking Jack Russell and she had to get rid of it before fucking Hilda or anyone else turned up for surgery.
At eight o'clock the doorbell went again. Carol steamed out and snatched it open. He was red haired with round owl glasses and wearing a dirty anorak.
'Can I see if you've got Rex?' he asked, gulping, almost in tears. Carol nodded and went and brought him the dead dog still wrapped in the bloodstained towel.
'Yes, yes, that's Rex,' he said, then burst into tears.
'Do you want to take him?' she asked brusquely.
He nodded, holding out his arms, and she passed over the dog wrapped in the towel.
'You can keep the towel,' she said, opening the door to usher him out. In fact, it was quite useful that he wanted to take it. She wouldn't have to dump the dog along with the bloodstained clothes.
'I'll bury it at my Grandma's. She's got a garden,' he said, blinking, his eyes watering behind his owl glasses.
'Fine, thank you, goodbye.' She shut the door, then had to open it again as the cleaner appeared.
'Morning, Carol, love, I'm ever so late today, my other job had left the place in a right state so I had a lot of cleaning.'
Carol didn't wait to listen as Mrs Dart prattled on while she got out her cleaning equipment. By now she was way off schedule; she was supposed to have taken the clothes to the
dump. All she could do was bundle them up and hide them under the counter until it was time for her to go home. She'd wasted time searching them for the charm and now it was almost eight thirty and the surgery would be open soon. Mrs Dart washed down the floor in reception, dusted and watered the plants, all with a non-stop conversation to herself. She even washed the floor in the operating room, clanking her bucket and mop.
'Can you hurry it up, Mrs Dart? It's almost time for surgery. Mrs Dart?'
THE GOBLIN Lynda La Plante Page 2