My Best Friend's Murder

by Polly Phillips

  I wait to see if he’ll wince at my turn of phrase. He doesn’t. He’s holding the roses so tightly their red is leeching into his shirt like a bloodstain. Clouds scudding past the window throw shadows across his face. I wait. More hangs on this moment than he realizes.

  ‘Well, this is amazing news. A bit of a shock, I must admit, despite all the practice.’ Rich winks and his face rearranges itself so I recognize him again. ‘Honestly, I’m chuffed. It’s come a bit out of left field but you know I’ve always wanted more children.’ His smile slips and I know he’s thinking about Izzy. He hoists it up again. ‘I’d have bought more flowers if I’d have known.’

  He bends down to hug me and I’m reminded of how tall he is. He towers over me. Like he towered over Izzy. I squash the thought. Until I can see his book again, I don’t really know anything. Even then I won’t be sure. But I need to read it.

  ‘I’ve just got a bit of admin to do.’ I detach myself. ‘Would you mind if I borrowed your study?’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Rich recaptures me and pulls me tight. ‘I’m not marking this moment with admin. This has been the best day ever. So I’m going to sit you down and make you the nicest cup of hot chocolate you’ve ever had. You need looking after.’

  He leads me into the snug and practically pushes me down onto the sofa. He pulls over a footstool for me to put my feet on. He’s behaving just the way I dreamed he would. Before.

  ‘It won’t take five minutes.’ I try to stand up. ‘I’d feel much better if I got it out of the way.’

  ‘Not a chance. You’re a delicate flower now.’ He grins. ‘Now, Tills, I’m going to make hot chocolate and I’m leaving you in charge. Bec’s not allowed to move a muscle. Do you hear?’

  Tilly springs up, runs over and plonks herself directly on my feet. ‘She’s not going anywhere,’ she giggles.

  Where would I go anyway? The nearest house is miles away and I don’t even know if anybody lives in it. Even if I made it out of here, who would I call? The police investigation is long since closed. I binned the detective’s card the moment he left. Jules probably isn’t speaking to me, and Rob’s a time zone away. I slump back against the sofa. I’m well and truly trapped.

  6.15 p.m.

  I can’t take my eyes off Rich’s hands as he cuts up Tilly’s chicken and vegetables. He’s got the kind of olive skin that only needs a glimpse of the sun to tan. Tilly’s the same. Our baby might inherit that gene. I rest my palm against my stomach. Then I think of those same hands on the small of Izzy’s back, giving her a quick, hard shove. I swallow.

  ‘Are you okay?’ He looks up from Tilly’s plate, his eyebrows pulled together in concern.

  ‘Just tired.’ I stare at my plate. As he runs me through everything that his course will involve, the teaching placements, how he might be eligible for some sort of maths-related grant, I can’t stop thinking about the possibility that he pushed her.

  ‘Early night for all of us, I think,’ he says. ‘Precious cargo and all.’

  I smile weakly.

  6.40 p.m.

  Rich reaches around me as I load the plates in the dishwasher. ‘Here, you’re stacking them all wrong. They can’t sit flush against each other.’ He rearranges them. Why have I never noticed how controlling he is? I used to think it was sweet how much he cared. I hate what these doubts are doing to me.

  ‘Do you mind doing bath and bed?’ I ask. If Rich does that, I can use the time to get into his study.

  ‘You know she likes it when we do it together,’ Rich points out. ‘And you’re better at doing the voices than I am. Come on, super mum. Let’s enjoy it while there’s only one of her. There’ll be two before you know it.’ He takes my hand and holds it to his heart. ‘Can you imagine?’

  I smile weakly and let him lead me up the stairs. If he moves his fingers a fraction he’ll be able to feel my pulse tapping under the skin of my wrist like a radio distress signal. But he’s busy talking about the possibility of getting work experience at Tilly’s school and how he can fit his degree in with helping out with the baby. He’s really excited. I listen with half an ear. I used to think the way we did these things together was a sign of how compatible we are. Now I’m not so sure.

  I feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck. The bathroom is oppressively hot; the extractor fan must be playing up again but Tilly splashes away happily, completely unaware of any tension. She’s got the entire plastic cast of The Little Mermaid and she’s playing games with them underwater, giving them silly voices and making them do things that seem to involve a lot of water being splashed out of the bath. I watch how her face lights up when Rich joins in the voiceovers, mangling a French accent for one of the characters. He lets Tilly make him a beard out of suds and doesn’t complain when she gets soap in his eye. Am I going mad? How could I think someone as kind and gentle as he is could do that to Izzy? But people can be capable of anything. I know that better than anyone. My head is spinning with the different possibilities. It’s as though thousands of spiders are scuttling across my brain. I can’t bear not knowing.

  It’s Tilly who provides the opportunity to find out. When she grows bored of the underwater kingdom, she starts posing, standing up and pouting at herself in the mirror over the sink. Pure Izzy.

  ‘Tills, sit down. It’s dangerous. And you mustn’t pose like that.’ Rich tries to swipe her arms down but she’s got them up by her face like an ingénue.

  ‘I’ve got to practise.’

  ‘For what? Your portfolio?’ Rich makes a face at me and I smile tightly. I’m still thinking of how I can get downstairs.

  ‘Miss Payne says we’re having our photos taken at school next week. The parents have to buy them.’

  ‘More photos? You did an entire photo shoot this morning.’ Rich finally gets her to sit down. He tweaks her chin. ‘I think I’ve seen enough of this monkey face, thank you very much, don’t you, Bec?’

  I’m already halfway to the door. ‘Why don’t I go downstairs and download those photos?’ I say. ‘I can plug the card into your laptop?’ I know ‘looking’ at Tilly’s photos will buy me enough time to see some of what else he’s written.

  ‘You don’t “plug” it in, you idiot. You put it in the card reader on the side. Do you want me to come and help you?’

  ‘No,’ I practically yelp. ‘I can figure it out. Is the card still in the camera? How do I get it out?’

  ‘Bring it up to me and I’ll do it.’ Rich mock-sighs. ‘It is the twenty-first century, you know.’

  6.55 p.m.

  I hear Rich’s voice rumbling through the beginning of a bedtime story as I close the door to the study behind me. It was all I could do to stop him coming downstairs with me. I reckon I’ve got about twenty minutes, give or take, depending on how many books Tilly demands. I should go through the motions of getting the photos downloaded before I read any more. That way if he comes in unexpectedly I can say I was doing the photos and happened to catch a glimpse of it. The manuscript is still lying where I left it, just to the right of the desk. I slip the card into the reader. I press the keypad a couple of times, key in Rich’s password (T1llyWaves!) and a stream of photographs fill the screen. Tilly looking impossibly grown-up in her school uniform, followed by us clowning around at breakfast. Dozens of duplicate images wallpaper the screen. There’s something reassuring about seeing how happy we all look together over and over again. But the final image is different from the rest. And if I think I felt sick before, that’s nothing compared to how I feel now.

  Thirty-Eight

  Even in thumbnail size I recognise Izzy’s old house. I’d know those grey walls anywhere – I helped choose the colour and lay the base coat until Izzy realized painting wasn’t as fun as it looks. I feel a creep of unease. I never considered there would be anything else on this card. But this image predates me. Opening it feels like snooping, but I’m well past that now.

  I click on the thumbnail and an enlarged image of Izzy’s staircase fills the scre
en. The legs of the hall-table are in the foreground and you can only see halfway up the stairs. The camera must be at floor level. There’s a date in the corner and a time. This must be a video, but nothing’s moving. The seconds whir by but the screen stays still. Then I notice the plush fur of a stuffed animal. My eyes lock in on the date in the corner and my throat fills with bile. The teddy bears’ tea party.

  I slam the screen shut. I’m at the door to the study in two strides, almost screaming up the stairs. ‘Rich?’

  ‘What?’ He leans his head over the top of the stairs. The top of his t-shirt is covered in soapsuds.

  I hug the edge of the door to me, using it like a shield. ‘Where did the card in the camera come from?’

  ‘I grabbed it from Tilly’s room. She seems to have adopted one of her old nanny cams. It’s an—’

  ‘Elephant…’ Now my voice is barely a whisper. The elephant that I took back to the kitchen. It must have been one of Tilly’s old nanny cams. It’s been sitting here the whole time. Rich wouldn’t have known it was there. The police never even saw it. What if it holds the answer to what happened the night Izzy died?

  I clutch at the door like the ground might give way.

  ‘That’s right.’ Rich is looking at me curiously. ‘Is something wrong with it? Has it been corrupted? If you give me five minutes, I can come and take a look.’

  ‘No, don’t.’ I try to control the panic edging into my voice. ‘It’s fine. I was just curious. Expanding my tech knowledge and all.’ I give a laugh that sounds fake even to my own ears. ‘You get back to it.’

  ‘Seriously, it’s no bother. In fact, Tilly’s almost done. Why don’t I come now?’

  Rich takes a step down the stairs and I freeze. For the first time it hits me that I really believe he pushed her. I don’t know what to do.

  ‘I’m not almost done.’ Tilly’s indignant voice saves me. ‘You said you’d read five books and you’ve only read four.’

  ‘Oh well. Duty calls.’ Rich starts back up the stairs.

  Thank God for Tilly’s voracious reading habit. I wait until my heart rate has slowed down before I trust myself to speak. Then I mumble, ‘Take your time,’ and scuttle back into his study.

  This time I lock the door. My knees rattle against the table when I sit down. I flip the laptop back open and tap the mouse pad. The desktop lights up with Rich’s screensaver – a close-up of the two of us at a local petting zoo, Tilly sandwiched between us, the flared nostrils of a pony looming in the background. I feel a swell of sorrow and have to remind myself I haven’t lost anything yet. I fumble with the keys. I type Rich’s password twice before I get it right.

  When it opens, the video starts playing automatically. But the only movement is still the timer in the corner, the seconds ticking away. I clench the inside of my cheek between my teeth, hoping against hope that I’ve blown this entire thing out of proportion. I can’t stop looking at the patch of floor where Izzy’s body lay.

  Then a figure appears between the camera and the stairs. From this angle, all I can see is purple unicorn socks tapering into shapely calves. As Izzy moves further away from the camera, more of her comes into shot. Even without the socks, I’d know Izzy in a heartbeat. Rich is right behind her. My mouth fills with the taste of pennies. I’ve bitten through my cheek. I poke at the hole with my tongue, trying to get rid of the blood. Deep down I think I always thought he could have had something to do with it. Otherwise why would I have jumped in and defended him? And who really goes and sits on a common to think for an hour and a half with their phone turned off? There’s no sound on the video but I can tell from Izzy’s body language that she’s raging at him. She’s right up in his face, mouth wide, hair askew. He looks the definition of browbeaten. Perhaps you could argue that she’s goading him into it? I can hardly even watch. She turns her back on him and walks towards the stairs. I catch my breath and wait for him to follow. He just stands there.

  I lean so close to the screen that my nose is almost touching it. I can’t stop picking at myself: the skin around my fingernails, the neckline of my top, my hairline. His indecision is agony to watch. Part of me just wants him to get on with it. Finally his feet start to move. But instead of following her up the stairs, he turns tail, walks the other way, past the camera towards the door.

  I do a double take. It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t believe he just left. On screen neither can Izzy. She looks almost panicked standing on the stairs, staring after him, obviously waiting for him to come back. Clearly he’s never walked away from her before.

  After a few moments, she stomps down the stairs, across the hall and drains the glass of wine on the hall table. I can see the frustration oozing off her in waves. She picks up a wayward cushion and smashes it to the ground at the bottom of the stairs. I remember seeing that cushion later, lying next to her broken body, the indent of where she’d held it still visible. It makes me shudder.

  Izzy picks up her mobile and starts jabbing at the keys. I’m feeling more and more nauseous. I picture my baby, only the size of a poppy seed, being polluted by my toxic waves of stress and anxiety. I want to turn this off – we must be minutes away from seeing Izzy plummet to the bottom of the stairs – but I can’t stop. I need to see it.

  Izzy’s shouting down the phone now – I can see her face curling up. But she starts laughing when she hangs up. It’s creepy how quickly her face transforms. Before I can work out what’s going on she slips her phone into her back pocket and slaps herself across the face. Hard enough to leave a mark. I squint. Surely I didn’t see that right. Then she does it again. It doesn’t make any sense. Izzy’s never been the type to hurt herself. Then a slow smile creeps across her face and I understand. She’s trying to make it look like Rich hurt her. Maybe he found out and that’s what sent him over the edge. Why he killed her.

  I shrink into my chair and wait for him to come back. On screen, Izzy’s attention must be caught by something off screen. I watch her cross the room, feet tripping past the camera, back to the front door. Within a few minutes, she’s back, her socks a blur of purple as she crosses towards the stairs. This time, a shadow falls on the ground behind her as she goes.

  I press my fist into my mouth. I don’t know if I can watch Rich do this. He’s always been the epitome of everything I could ever want in a man; I don’t know if I can bear to watch him destroy that.

  But the person coming up behind her isn’t Rich. They’re too small; too slight. A totally different build. At first all I see is joggers and the flash of black and red trainers. Every sinew of my body is strained as I wait for the person to come directly in front of the camera. When she does, I can’t help crying out. It’s Sydney. Her hair might be tucked under a baseball cap but her face catches the light of Izzy’s antique chandelier as she mounts the first step. And she’s wearing Louboutin trainers.

  She climbs after Izzy and disappears from view. The camera angle stops halfway up the stairs. Both of them are out of shot. I’m desperately hoping there will be something else to see; another explanation. Then I think back to Sydney’s ex-boyfriend suddenly up on federal charges after their break-up, her story about the luckless Dionne. How furious Sydney was on the phone after she fell. Her sudden magnanimity at the party. It all makes sense. There’s a sense of creeping inevitability as Izzy comes plummeting down, limbs tumbling over each other, picking up momentum as she goes. She narrowly misses the cushion and hits the floor so hard that I swear I can almost hear the thump. That beautiful face, which she was slapping only minutes ago, takes the full force of the impact. There’s a gap of two or three seconds, then Sydney comes hurrying after her. I see Izzy’s fingers curl out towards her. Sydney steps over her like she’s a piece of litter. She stops briefly to get out her phone and dial a number as casually as if she’s ordering an Uber. Then she keeps walking.

  This time I can’t keep the nausea down. I grab Rich’s empty coffee mug and retch into it. Green watery bile trickles down the side, running be
tween my fingers. I dump the mug back on the table and sink to the floor. I huddle with my hands wrapped around my knees, shaking. Of all the things I expected to see on that video, it was never that. All this over a stupid rumour and a false accusation. I bury my head in my hands, sick to the core. Tilly lost her mother for nothing.

  I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough to realize it’s lucky that Tilly is keeping Rich busy. How can I face him? I feel totally responsible. If it wasn’t for me, Sydney would never have thought Izzy leaked the story. I think of Sydney’s calm face picking up her phone as she left Izzy crumpled on the floor. I spoke to her that night. I wonder whether that was before or after everything I’ve just seen. The idea that I might have been on the other end of the line while life spooled out of Izzy makes me start retching again.

  At least Rich had nothing to do with it, I tell myself. That should make me feel euphoric. Instead I’m on the verge of tears. He still lied to me about being there that night. He said they’d argued but he made it sound like it was on the phone. He never said he’d seen her. What else has he lied about? Never in my life have I wanted my mum more. An adult to swoop in and absolve me of responsibility. There are decisions to be made now, but I don’t want to make them. Only now I’m going to be a mother I have to. I cup my non-existent bump and think of Sydney. So is she. I think of Rob saying she’s had a lot of therapy and feel a claw of fear. What if she were to do something to Rob? Or to their baby? I need to take this video to the police.

  Rich will be completely exonerated. Although he says it doesn’t bother him, I know it does. It’s part of the reason we’re here – the two of us against the rest of the world. He’s been living under a cloud since that night. This will set him free.

  I slide the memory card out carefully. I could run outside and tell Rich or call him in here so he can see it for himself.

  Instead, I drop it onto the floor and stamp on it.

  Justice for Izzy? I think back to all the justices she’s meted out over the years and I grind the card deeper into the carpet. The way she took Rich in the first place; how she hurt Rob all those years ago. Advising Ed to cheat on me. She couldn’t let me have anything of my own.