My Best Friend's Murder

by Polly Phillips

  ‘Sounds good. So what are you going to do today?’ He moves the subject on without acknowledging the present or my desire for him to come home early. I swallow the nub of unease about his eagerness to get back to London.

  ‘I thought I might finally tackle the second spare room. There are a few boxes in there that still haven’t been unpacked and you never know when we might need the space.’ I smile to myself. ‘If I finish that, I might do some online investigating about what there is to do around here in the school holidays. Perhaps we could go out to the fens or to the coast for a few nights.’

  ‘That sounds good.’ He pats my knee absently as he slides the car into the driveway. I wonder if his mind is already in London. I remind myself I don’t have to compete with a city. ‘Don’t work too hard.’

  I watch the car recede into the distance then I go into the kitchen through the side door and make myself a hot chocolate. I stand in a patch of sunlight drinking it and thinking about Rich. I have to learn to trust him, I remind myself. To trust in us. When nothing but the dregs remain, I put the cup in the sink, douse it with water and head upstairs to the second spare room.

  Calling it a spare room is a bit of a stretch. It’s the size of a wardrobe and it’s currently crammed full of all the stuff that doesn’t belong anywhere else. To be honest, I’d almost forgotten about it. But a lick of paint and a declutter could make it a nice space. I just have to get on with it. I steel myself and pull open the door. It’s a cardboard city in there. But I won’t be deterred. Like I told Rich, you never know when you might need the space. So I sit down cross-legged and set to work. I’m quick and efficient – it’s easy to be brutal with someone else’s stuff. I untangle an entire box full of wires, most of which are phone chargers for long-defunct models, and lob out three crates full of old magazines. I can tell Rich paid a company to do his packing. Another box entirely full of tablecloths and table runners. So much junk. I whistle while I work, imagining the room in pale blue or maybe pink, with white trim picking out the paintwork. I tear through the detritus, feeling lighter with each box I open and discard. Until I come to a box full of old photographs.

  I pull out the first and realize right away that it’s part of the stuff that should have gone to Glenda and Tony. The photograph is of a young Glenda pushing Izzy on the swing. If it wasn’t for her seventies’ flares and polo neck, she could be Izzy. I feel a wedge of renewed sympathy. Losing a mother is horrific, but losing your child must be worse. It’s not the natural order of things. The last time I spoke to Glenda she screamed that I was a whore down the phone. I hung up before she could start on Rich. I lay the photos on the bed. I’ll post these later. It’s the right thing to do.

  12.45 p.m.

  After a few hours nose-deep in cardboard, I need a break. I know Rich bought envelopes for posting out his manuscript. They’ll be somewhere in his office. I pad downstairs to the small study at the back of the house to find them. His desk is little more than a scratched-up table with a laptop in the middle, a discarded coffee mug and a stack of paper towering above it. There’s a slit of a window, which looks out onto the back of the dilapidated garden wall, the end of which is little more than a pile of loose bricks. It couldn’t be more different from the polished slab of a desk with the corner-office view.

  There’s a battered metal filing cabinet in the corner next to the fireplace. I open the top drawer and start sifting through. It’s a jumble of old bills and receipts. His accountant’s going to have a field day next April. I ferret my way through what looks like a series of expensive lunches, digging down until I reach the bottom. My hands close around a pack of envelopes still in their cellophane wrapper. As I wrench them out, I feel something stuck to the back. I flip the packet over and see an envelope with my name on it.

  My stomach churns. I recognize Izzy’s confident flourish straightaway. Feeling like someone’s walked over my grave, I slit the envelope open with my thumbnail and pull out a thick cream card with Congratulations embossed on the front. I frown. She was so busy organizing the party, Izzy never got round to giving me an engagement card. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I flick it open. Both sides are covered with tightly packed cursive.

  Dear Bec,

  I’m writing this on the eve of your engagement party. You finally got there and I think I can even take a little bit of the credit for introducing the pair of you. You’re welcome!!

  I almost stop reading then. The next line makes me carry on.

  I know our friendship has had its ups and downs but I’ve been rooting for you to get your happy ending. You deserve it. At last! And now for the advice from someone older (barely!) and wiser (definitely!). Make sure you don’t go to bed angry (or without your make-up on, as my mum would say!!) and be prepared to take the good with the bad. I’m not saying there won’t be stacks of good – Ed’s a good guy. But sometimes people can surprise you.

  Just make sure you don’t forget about me when you’re an old, married woman! I’ve always got your back. And as we both know, I’m quite the wedding planner!!

  All my love, Izzy.

  I can almost hear her voice; how pleased she must have been with herself when she wrote it. The multiple exclamation marks bring out a pang of affection. She did want the best for me. After that comes an unfamiliar creep of superiority. Sometimes people can surprise you. She must have been in a mood with Rich when she wrote it. She’s describing a partner I don’t know. I don’t have to remember not to go to bed angry (or with my make-up on) and there are no nasty surprises. We work in a way that they obviously didn’t. Her card reads like an admission of defeat. Which means I’ve won the silent competition we’ve been waging ever since our friendship began. At last I can let it go.

  Something about the envelopes bothers me, though. Why hadn’t the packet been opened? I know Rich bought them in case any agents wanted his manuscript the old-fashioned way. A shadow of doubt crosses my mind. Is the real reason why no agents have responded because they haven’t got it? I never actually saw him send any emails. Even thinking that makes me feel horribly unsupportive. But his evasiveness every time it comes up has been nagging at me. He’s worked so hard on it for so long. Why wouldn’t he send it now? My eyes fix on the tower of paper at the edge of his desk. I could just have a quick flick through to put my mind at rest. When I stand up, my phone starts vibrating in my pocket: Rich. It’s like he knows I’m about to read it. I stop in my tracks.

  ‘Hi.’ I know I sound flustered. He’s too buzzed to notice.

  ‘Guess where I am?’

  ‘Er, London.’ I can’t take my eyes off his desk. His manuscript is inches away.

  ‘I’m in Kingston. At the university.’

  ‘How is it?’ Now I’m the one who sounds distracted. The manuscript is so close, if I stretch my fingers a millimetre I could just reach for it.

  ‘The teaching course sounds amazing. And I meet all the entry requirements. They seemed really excited to have someone like me apply. Isn’t that awesome?’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’ I try to mirror his enthusiasm. ‘You’ll be a great teacher.’ But I can’t help pushing him on the book one more time, knowing his answer will determine what I do next. ‘Does this mean you’re giving up on your book?’

  ‘That’s not why I’m calling.’ There’s a trace of irritation in Rich’s voice, mixed with something else I can’t put my finger on. ‘I’m calling to ask if you can pick Tilly up on your own today. Grab a cab or something? I’ve got a few bits and pieces to do while I’m in town. I don’t think I’ll be back till this evening.’

  ‘Take your time.’ I park my guilt and pull the manuscript towards me. I gave him a chance to tell me about his book and he didn’t take it. He’s shutting me out. And I have a right to know why he doesn’t want me to read it anymore. ‘I’d better go if I’m going to make it for pick-up.’

  ‘You’re a star. Back as soon as I can. Love you.’

  I murmur ‘love you’ back automaticall
y, barely even registering it for once. I’ve stopped listening. I’m too busy staring at the top page where Unholy Alliance by Rich Waverly is neatly typed. The night he told me about it swims into my mind. Of course. He said it was about an unhappy marriage. The whole conversation got side-lined when we kissed but I should have remembered.

  My mind is starting to race. What if this book is about Izzy? A tribute to how much he loved her, or a warts-and-all account of where it all went wrong. What if I’m in there? Or worse, what if I’m not? My fingers skid across the page almost of their own accord. I try to tell myself that as far as betrayals go, this isn’t a big one. That reading it now will help me edit the right response for when he does let me read it. I flip open the first page before I can talk myself out of it. I remember the other emotion in his voice that night as my eyes skim over the words. It was shame. I stop. Blink. Read them again.

  I can’t have read that right.

  But I have. The words are there in black and white:

  Sometimes I hate my wife so much I want to kill her.

  My stomach spins like a tumble drier and I drop the page and back away.

  Thirty-Six

  3.07 p.m.

  Tilly seems to be taking an inordinate amount of time to let go of her teacher’s hand. I know it’s a good sign that she liked the school but all of the other kids have long since scampered off. I have to physically stop myself tapping my feet.

  ‘I don’t want to go.’ Tilly looks up at her teacher adoringly. ‘I want to stay with Miss Payne.’

  ‘I’m sure Miss Payne needs to go home too.’ I try to keep the frustration out of my voice. It isn’t Tilly’s fault that after I read Rich’s killer – quite literally – first line, I dropped the book and backed away like it was going to bite me. I sat there in denial for I don’t know how long. Going over whether I am building a future with someone who killed their wife. It was time to collect Tilly before I had the guts to pick it up again. Now all I want to do is go back. I need to know what I’m dealing with.

  Tilly detaches herself from the trouser leg she’s clamped herself to sulkily. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Don’t forget your awesome picture,’ Miss Payne reminds her. ‘It should be dry now. Can you help her find it, Mrs Hill? They’re all on the drying rack.’

  While we wait for the unseen Mrs Hill to produce the picture, Miss Payne tries to tell me how well Tilly fitted in at the school and how much they’re looking forward to having her join them in September. It’s as if her voice is coming from a great distance away. I can barely focus. Rich’s first line is all I can think about.

  ‘That’s great,’ I say, barely glancing at the picture when it’s eventually produced. ‘Now come on, Tilly, we’ve got to get a move on.’

  ‘That’s you and Missy.’ Tilly points at a woman with abnormally long arms and a big red smile. ‘We had to draw our family.’

  I feel a surge of guilt. I should be grateful I’m in the picture at all. I make a conscious effort to pull myself into the present. ‘And where are you?’

  She points at a blob of paint above what’s clearly meant to be the dog’s tail. ‘That’s me. I’m riding Tilly.’

  ‘And where’s Daddy?’ I make a clutch for normalcy. ‘Is he behind that mountain?’ I point at the slab of black and grey paint daubed at the back of the picture.

  ‘That is Daddy.’ Tilly giggles. ‘He’s so much bigger than us.’ Despite myself, I shudder.

  3.15 p.m.

  Back at home I tell Tilly she can watch TV and she looks at me in confusion. Normally I would insist she does something else first before she flops down in front of the screen but I don’t have the energy to supervise stickers or colouring.

  ‘A treat for your first day at big school.’ I fob her off.

  ‘Bec?’ she asks, as I thrust the Apple controller into her hand.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you watch with me?’

  My heart clenches. ‘I’d love to. I’ve got to check on something for Daddy but I’ll be right back in.’ I sweeten the deal. ‘Why don’t I get you some biscuits?’

  ‘I could help you?’

  What is wrong with this child? After the way Izzy rationed out Tilly’s screen time and sugar intake during her formative years, she should be clamouring to plug herself in now. My heart clenches harder. Izzy. I need to find out what Rich has written.

  ‘It’ll only take a minute.’ I take the remote control back and start jabbing at the buttons. ‘There you go. How about PAW Patrol? See what Chase and the gang are up to.’

  I hotfoot it out of the room and cross the hall before she can say anything else.

  I’ve barely cracked the door of Rich’s study when Tilly starts shouting again. I try to ignore her but the volume just increases until she’s competing with the blare of the TV. I can’t hear myself think.

  I storm back into the room. ‘What is it now?’ She’s standing on the back of the sofa with her face pressed up against the window.

  ‘Daddy’s back.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Daddy’s still in London. Now, are you going to sit down and watch telly or should I turn it off?’ At this rate, Rich’ll be home before I’ve even opened the book again. But she won’t move from the window. I come up behind her to see what she’s looking at. The white and blue blur of a local bus service rolls by. ‘See? It’s just a bus. Now you’d better get off the sofa before you bust the springs.’ Izzy’s prized sofa is looking distinctly rough around the edges. It’s more stale-biscuit coloured than buttercup these days. I should have done a better job of looking after it.

  ‘Behind the bus.’ Tilly’s staring out the window and resisting my efforts to peel her off the back of the sofa. I follow her gaze and sure enough the navy bonnet of Rich’s Porsche Cayenne is glinting in the sun as it trails the bus up the lane. My pulse quickens. I don’t have much time. ‘You’re right, clever girl. Honestly, I don’t know why Daddy drove. He could probably just as well have got…’

  A thousand facts suddenly fly at me, each one a shard of glass. In his banker days, Rich once called the bus ‘a peasant wagon’. He and Izzy were equally squeamish about travelling on them. So why was he waiting at a bus stop that night? I know he said he’d been up to the common, but why did he go back to the bus stop? He should have been on his way home. Unless he’d already been home. I grip my throat, nails digging in. I think I’m going to be sick.

  Sometimes I hate my wife so much I want to kill her.

  Wanting is one thing. Doing is another. I need to read the rest of that book. The crunch of tyres on the gravel. I back away from the window. In a matter of minutes, Rich will spring out of the car then stride towards the front door. I’ll only have a few seconds while he pats down his trouser pockets for the door key he’s always misplacing. Then he’ll be inside. It’s amazing how you can know someone well enough to memorize their tiny idiosyncrasies. Turns out you can know all of that without really knowing them at all.

  I hurry back towards the study. If I can just find out what happens next… The front door swings open. Too late.

  ‘I come bearing gifts,’ Rich shouts as he thrusts open the door. Silhouetted in the frame, I notice again how broad his shoulders are.

  ‘Roses for my rose.’ He strides into the hall and I notice his arms are full of flowers. He leans down to kiss me but I move my face away.

  ‘Don’t. I’m all sweaty.’

  ‘And one for my monkey for her first day of school.’ He plucks a red rose from the centre of the bunch and bows as Tilly comes charging over.

  ‘Like Beauty and the Beast.’ She snatches it from his hand and hurries back to PAW Patrol.

  ‘So how was it?’ He looks at Tilly but directs the question at me.

  ‘It was great,’ Tilly shouts. ‘I’ve got a best friend called Sasha and Miss Payne’s got three cats.’

  ‘Crazy cat lady.’ Rich smirks at me. I can’t bring myself to smile. I can tell he’s waiting for me to ask about the course but the si
lence hangs.

  ‘I’m sorry about the roses.’ At last he notices something’s up. ‘I know red’s a cliché. I was looking for white.’

  He imbues his words with a special significance and I feel myself start to soften. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Rich had started writing his book long before Izzy died. And if he did have something to do with what happened, why in a million years would he write something so incriminating? Still the doubt lingers. Him writing about wanting to kill his wife shortly before she dies is one hell of a coincidence. What if he wasn’t on the common that night? My mind replays the gratitude in his voice when he told me on the doorstep he couldn’t face it without me. Was he talking about a difficult conversation or Izzy’s body? What if his words had more meaning than I realized? There’s too much riding on this for me to jump to conclusions. I’ve got a family to consider. I need to see what else he wrote. I look at the roses reluctantly. ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rich peers into my face. ‘You don’t seem very enthused.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look a bit pale. Are you sure you’re okay?’

  I check Tilly’s safely ensconced in front of the TV. Then I look him dead in the eyes. They’re the same shade of chocolate with flecks of gold that they’ve always been. Even if everything else is different. I take a deep breath. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Thirty-Seven

  3.55 p.m.

  The news was worthy of a better moment – this morning I’d been imagining champagne (just a sip for me) and holding hands by candlelight. Not standing anchored to the spot, wondering if the man I love killed his wife. But the words come tumbling out. I watch Rich’s throat pumping. His fringe has tumbled over his eyes. He’s suddenly a stranger. I can’t read him.

  ‘I thought you were on the—’ Rich grapples with the middle-aged version of the teenage dilemma ‘Is it mine?’

  ‘I was.’ Mostly. ‘I guess accidents happen.’