Who Killed Anne-Marie?

by CM Thompson

  Anne-Marie’s stained pyjamas were of no help either, just blood and glass. Samples had been sent away for DNA testing, along with the pieces of flesh found underneath Anne-Marie’s finger nails. No prizes for guessing who they will belong to, Colvin thinks, before going back to examining the photographs taken by the forensics team.

  Grimm watches her quietly for a few moments before asking, “Do you think we have missed something?”

  Colvin shrugs and then nods. Perhaps it was Sherri Fowler’s screeched accusation that they were letting a murderer get away or perhaps it is her own gut feeling, but something just didn’t feel right.

  She is annoyed that they can’t even determine the manner of death: if you thought this was a murder case, you found evidence for murder. If you thought this was a suicide case, you found evidence for suicide. If you thought this was an accident, you found evidence for an accident.

  “How many cases have you had where ‘we had a fight and I left’ turned out to be ‘we had a fight, I battered her brains in and left?’” she asks.

  Grimm is silent, not wanting to admit that it happened often, along with “she tripped” and “I don’t know what happened, I swear”. He wearily sits down to review the evidence again with Colvin.

  “Well, we will find something or my name is not Nicholas Agamemnon Grimm.”

  There is a confused pause before Colvin asks. “Agamemnon?”

  “I have a very powerful grandmother,” Grimm replies with a wise nod.

  Daniel’s boss called him a few days after the funeral. It was an awkward conversation. Daniel knew already that he wasn’t going to be welcomed back. He could hear the relieved intake of breath, when he told her that he was quitting. The joy in his boss’s voice as she stammered that she will miss him but she understands, that she will write him a good reference. Then she said a quick goodbye, no doubt wanting to end the conversation before he changed his mind.

  Daniel is not surprised, he was a good worker, a competent worker, unlike some people. But he knows what they have been saying about him, even before Anne-Marie’s first accident. She’d repeatedly embarrassed both him and his work colleagues.

  It was his fault too, for trying to include her. He would always take her to the company outings, anything where spouses were invited. She was never purposely left out. She would be excited about going right up until the day, then suddenly she hated every piece of clothing she owned. If they went shopping for a new outfit a few days before, then she would hate that outfit especially. Nothing fitted right. There would be tears and then a shot of something. No matter what he said to reassure her, it wasn’t right. She acted as if his company, his workmates and their spouses were a gaggle of harpies, their sharpened claws ready to tear her to shreds.

  There were four ways it would go after that, Anne-Marie having a good time was not one of them. On two different occasions she refused to get out the car and he had to drive home, where she would retreat into her room with a bottle. “We realised we left the oven on,” or “Her mother is unwell,” he would say the next day to the few who had seen them arrive.

  Second option, she would stay at his side, drinking, because she was bored. A co-worker would want to discuss something and she would start twitching with boredom. Anne-Marie could never be sober and still at the same time. Her hands would constantly be twitching, waiting for something to happen. If nothing happened and she felt she was being ignored she would take a long gulp of the complimentary wine, then another. Then another glass, more gulps. Until he had to make excuses and usher her away.

  “You were ignoring me,” she would wail “I wait all week to see you. You see them every day.” It was not his fault that she had no interest in the audit or the inventory. These things were important.

  Third option would be that some well-meaning wife, who was usually new to the female group, would take Anne-Marie under her wing, introduce her to others, then someone would start talking about their darling Freddie or Alfie. Someone who didn’t know or didn’t care that children were a taboo subject. Anne-Marie, having nothing to contribute to the conversation, would start drinking to escape the awkwardness. No matter who took her under their wing, no matter what was said, she was different to them. She didn’t have anything in common with anyone. Well, early on, she must have had something in common with him. They wouldn’t have got married otherwise.

  After a few awkward outings and so many muttered apologises, after Anne-Marie had become loudly abusive on three occasions, the fourth option was the only one option left. They stopped talking to her – and him. He couldn’t blame them, but that made things so much worse. When they arrived, you could hear the happy chatter reduced to murmurs, smiles became forced. No one could look them in the eye. Anne-Marie had an inbuilt sense for awkwardness, and at any sniff of it she would start drinking at such a pace that Daniel didn’t know why she bothered with a glass.

  In the very beginning, his colleagues had been nothing but concerned. “Is your wife OK?” was asked around twenty times the following day. “She is fine,” Daniel would always insist with an unbelieving smile. “She just had a touch too much to drink, I am sorry for what she said.” They would shrug off the apology, citing incidents where they had said something worse. It was always laughed off at first, then it was rarely mentioned, they would just acknowledge his apologies. On later occasions, they would say nothing to him the next day, just avoid glances, whisper when they thought he couldn’t hear. Then the complimentary wine was stopped and he became the most unpopular man in the company.

  It wasn’t his fault that she didn’t fit in. She didn’t want to fit in, so she drank. He didn’t really fit in either. It was a relief to use her as an excuse to leave. They were a perfect partnership really.

  Nothing was said. They were all too polite for that, but still, Daniel stopped bringing her, stopped ruining everyone else’s day. She noticed, of course. He would tell her that it was because he didn’t want to go or that the activity planned wasn’t “their kind of thing”. Of course, she didn’t believe him. It just became fuel for the “you are ashamed of me” arguments. It wasn’t his fault that she didn’t know how to talk to people. What was he supposed to do? Supply cue cards? Warn everyone ahead of time that they couldn’t talk about children, holidays or work? What else could they have talked about?

  He knew it was too late to repair the damage at work. If they had got divorced then maybe he would have been accepted again. But for her to die in such a suspicious way – they would be whispering about him for years to come. Even in death, Anne-Marie is still ruining his life. He can do nothing except start again.

  Maybe when things quieten down, he will start again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Yes, I killed that bitch.

  So what?

  She deserved it.

  And let’s face it, it’s not like anyone is going to miss her!

  Someone should have done it years ago.

  She fucking deserved it. She was blackmailing me! Me! How fucking dare she? Kept increasing her demands with that ridiculous smirk on her face. Did she think she could get away with blackmailing me for ever? I never should have given in to her in the first place, I should have pushed her years ago, wiped that smirk off her face there and then. I control things, not her!

  Well, she is not smiling now, that’s for sure.

  When you have a problem, you should deal with it straightaway, you don’t let it fester, you don’t let it gain a foothold.

  And let’s face it, no one really cares that she is gone. I performed a neighbourhood service, a community service, getting rid of her. I should get some kind of reward, they should be thanking me. Even the police know that, which is why they are only doing a half-hearted investigation, going through the perfunctory motions.

  Everyone thinks Daniel did it anyway, even if the police managed to find a clue, they will blame him not me. They are not going to find anything, they couldn’t even find their own arses even if they had he
lp.

  So long, Anne-Marie, you stupid bitch.

  Don’t come back.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There will be no trial, unless new evidence is found. Daniel is relieved of course, the thought of testifying fills him with dread, but he is also disappointed. No trial means he can’t silence the whisperers, those who think the worst of him. He can’t prove to them that he is not guilty and he is not guilty! He’s not!

  He is in limbo now, no idea what to do. He can’t go back to work, he doesn’t feel like finding a new job, so maybe later, when the town has forgotten his name.

  He could scrub the hallway again. Despite his repeated efforts, nothing looks clean and a permanent smell remains, intruding like an unwanted guest. He is convinced that he can see his wife’s outline from where she lay on the tiles. He needs to get rid of it all. The holey carpet, floor tiles, everything.

  But how?

  The neighbours already saw too much the day he got rid of the first load of bin bags. He paused and looked up to see almost every curtain on the street fluttering. He suspected this would happen, it is why he left the reeking bags in the hallway until he saw the collection truck approaching, taking them out at last minute so no one could pry inside. If he pulls up the stairway carpet, where would he take it? No doubt it was stained on both sides, which adds to his problems. Wherever he leaves it, some self-described detective will claim it. He could burn it, along with Anne-Marie’s clothes. There is nothing suspicious about that, nothing at all!

  He can’t afford a new stair carpet right now, not with all Anne-Marie’s debts, including her funeral. Oh, Sherri had been happy to arrange everything but had left the cost of paying to him. Typical! He can afford it mostly, but he can’t stay unemployed for long.

  That should be a motivator to start applying for jobs, but it’s not. He just can’t bring himself to even look, can’t bring himself to do a lot of things recently. He thinks about taking a holiday, the one he had longed for so much before, but it doesn’t feel the right thing to do. He doesn’t want to leave the house, and he doesn’t want to go anywhere alone. He can’t stand being alone in the house, hated being alone in the hotel. What can he do? His only hobbies were Anne-Marie and the TV. He doesn’t have much else. He tries to tell himself that it won’t be so bad to spend a few more days doing a little scrubbing and a lot more TV watching. He needs to give himself time to recover after all he has been through.

  So he sits and he eats.

  And he eats.

  He has always eaten to fill the void inside and food has always been the one thing that he can turn to. It doesn’t even matter what he eats, what matters is that he is distracted, preparing the food is a distraction, the endless cramming of food in his mouth is a greasy distraction, the thinking of the next meal is a distraction, then the eating of more food.

  Most of the time he doesn’t even feel hungry and his clothes don’t fit any more. He plods around the house in unwashed sweat pants. But what does that matter? Does anything even matter? Sometimes he just stares at food, willing himself to be hungry so that he can eat again. Sometimes he thinks of himself as a duck, being force-fed for a fatty liver and he stuffs more food in there.

  He now only leaves the house for more supplies. On the first trip, he felt guilty and ashamed by the stares and whispers. He didn’t want to be in the outside world, yet he craves social contact. He finally understands his wife, but still doesn’t understand everything. Eating, he thinks, helps him to understand. As he burrows through a bag of marshmallows, he becomes convinced that the answer lies somewhere towards the bottom of the bag.

  He understands now why Anne-Marie never answered the phone. Before, he was angry when he came home to an answering machine full of messages. Anne-Marie had been at home all day, doing nothing. “Why didn’t you answer it?” He would ask. She would stare at the floor and say that she didn’t feel like it, that she didn’t feel like talking to anyone, not even him.

  He used to think that if you were at home all day, talking to nothing animate, then you would jump at the chance to talk on the phone, just to hear a friendly voice. Now he thinks he understands, the phone is just another annoyance, they should have got rid of it years ago. The shrill ring snaps you away from your happy place, with its demand for immediate attention. He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone now except Anne-Marie. Not that people feel like talking to him either, most of the calls he gets are sales calls for things he can’t afford.

  He stuffs another marshmallow in his mouth. He doesn’t even like marshmallows, they are just sugary nothingness, but he had found a packet in the top cupboard. Anne-Marie had liked marshmallows, she had liked to pop as many as possible into her mouth then add a gulp of something spirity, then she would sit, chewing contentedly, like a cow, occasionally giggling to herself. He tried to copy her on occasion, share in her fun, but it only made him choke. Now he keeps eating them, even though they make him feel sick. There is something in the taste; had he once kissed Anne-Marie after one of her marshmallow stuffs? Had he once had this sweet taste on her lips? No, he can only remember tasting the sharp notes of something alcoholic, even in the early days – reminding him of his mother. He wishes now he had kissed his wife more. He tries to stuff that feeling away with another marshmallow, and another, and another, then he takes a swig from the brandy bottle, and another, mixing the bitter with the sweet in his mouth, wanting to remember more and yet wanting the memories to stop.

  Peter has had another bad day at work. They all seem to be bad days now, ever since his sister died, as if she had cursed him with her dying breath. She probably did, that would be just like her. He did nothing wrong but he must still be punished. Why? Who knows why? Because Anne-Marie thought that Sherri loved him more? Because he let their father leave? Because he couldn’t save her? Because he was glad she was dead? Because he didn’t answer his phone earlier? Because he didn’t want to take her away from her husband? It wasn’t his fault, she wasn’t his responsibility. He shouldn’t feel so guilty, he did nothing wrong. Why did he end up surrounded by crazy women? Why was everything he said the wrong thing? Why does he feel like he is turning into Daniel?

  To make his day even worse, his mother calls him, again. She calls him now more than Daniel used to. As soon as he gets rid of one annoyance, he gets another.

  “Peter?”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “Daniel could have …” He lets his mother drone on and on, barely listening. God forbid she would at least ask “How are you? How was your day? How was work?” Then he could tell her that his job at the moment is like sitting at a dinner table, when you have had the starters and everything so far was fine, but then suddenly shit is being served, some people leave immediately, some nibble at the shit and then leave and some eat the shit, hoping dessert will be better and if you stay, you have to be positive about eating the shit, so other people will join the table and there will be less shit for you to eat. Not that his mother would understand, she would be the one serving the shit, insisting that he eats up because it is good for him.

  “Peter!” His mother’s voice is stern, whatever she is going to say next needs his full attention and no doubt it will be difficult to answer.

  “Yes, Ma?”

  “The day Anne-Marie was taken from us.”

  “Yes, Ma?”

  “You rang me and said Anne-Marie may have taken her own life.”

  Peter inwardly groans and curses. “Yes, Ma?” He is going to get a ‘don’t you yes ma me’ in a minute, if he is not careful.

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Oh, Ma.”

  “WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?”

  “I am tired, Ma, can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Oh, you are tired, poor little baby.” Her tone turns mocking. “You just curl up in bed and forget all about your poor murdered sister.”

  “Ma, I really don’t want to talk about this right now?”

  “OK.”

  Peter
breathes a slight sigh of relief and then panics, it is not like his mother to give in so quickly.

  “Why did you then say she had an accident?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake!”

  “Peter Fowler!”

  “Ma, I don’t know! I wasn’t really thinking!”

  “What made you say that? There must have been something that made you say that. What is being kept from me Peter? I know there is something you are not telling me.” His mother starts to cry.

  Peter can’t tell if she is crying to make him feel guilty or genuinely crying. He wishes his mother wouldn’t manipulate him like this. He wishes it didn’t still work on him. A voice inside him starts to resonate: well her daughter did die and she deserves an explanation.

  “I said suicide because Anne-Marie had been sad for a while,” he began, not knowing how else to phrase it.

  “Well, married to Daniel, who wouldn’t be?” Sherri immediately snaps.

  Peter knows that no matter what he says now, his mother will still insist that it is Daniel’s fault and Daniel’s fault alone. Peter isn’t entirely sure that is true.

  “What has brought this on, Ma?” Peter asks gently, trying to change tactics.

  “Those useless police officers. They said that they are not going to charge Daniel …” Sherri practically spits his name. “… with murder. Can you believe it? They need more evidence! How much evidence do you fucking need? You know what I think, Peter?”

  Peter tries to murmur a response, but knows it’s a trap no matter what he says.

  “I think someone is not telling me something. Something is being kept from me.” Her tone is dangerous now.

  “Ma.”

  “What happened to Anne-Marie in January?”

  “Nothing, she fell down the stairs, it was a stupid accident, that’s all.”