Who Killed Anne-Marie?

by CM Thompson

  Daniel stuffs more pizza into his mouth, hating every cheese-filled bite. This was supposed to be his celebration pizza, and they wrecked it. It was wrecked anyway, by this stupid house and his stupid wife. After years of living with Anne-Marie, the now-empty house feels too cold, too dark, too quiet. He is not used to being this alone. He needs to hear reassuring bangs, he needs his broken bird creeping around in the shadows, stealing food from the cupboard when she thought he wasn’t looking. He can’t believe it, he finally got what he wanted, peace and quiet … but now it’s too quiet.

  And everyone hates you, a thought whispers.

  And everyone hates me, he agrees.

  He picks up another slice, he is already feeling very full, uncomfortably full, but he still shoves it down. Chewing quickly, trying to block out his thoughts, readying his hand to reach for another slice. He can hear the kitchen clock ticking, how fast can he eat this slice? How fast can he eat the next slice? He needs to feel more than full so he doesn’t feel … anything else.

  This is how it’s going to be for the rest of your life, he thinks sadly. I have to get out of here before it is too late.

  It is too late, another voice insists. It’s much too late. He has become the neighbourhood bogeyman. His monster reputation will follow him wherever he goes.

  He swallows, forcing the food down. He feels sick. This can’t go on. How often did he say that when Anne-Marie was still alive? This really can’t go on. He can’t go on like this.

  “He put ice on the stairs!” Sherri’s voice shrieks down the phone.

  It is nearly midnight, and Peter had just closed his eyes when the phone rang.

  “What?” he finally manages.

  “Daniel put ice on the stairs.”

  “What?” Peter can feel the return of a throbbing headache.

  “Daniel put ice on your stairs?”

  “No, you moron, he put ice on the stairs, that’s how he killed her. He put ice all down the hallway, making it slippery. We need to get a copy of the autopsy report. They would have noticed if Anne-Marie’s feet were wet.” Under her breath, she said, “Unlike those idiotic police.”

  “Ma.”

  “This is why the police couldn’t find anything, the evidence melted.”

  “Ma.”

  “Don’t you ma me, we need to find a way to prove this.”

  “I don’t think Daniel …” He can feel her displeasure already hissing down the phone, an unforgiving silence as his tired mind struggles to think of something to reason with. His mother doesn’t want to be reasoned with, she wants him to agree with her. “Ma, it’s late.” What other excuses can he use? He is too tired to think of why she is wrong. Daniel wasn’t a criminal mastermind? The police would have noticed puddles of water? Then a sudden thought springs to mind. “How would she slip on ice on a carpeted floor?”

  His mother is silent. She had forgotten that little detail.

  “Maybe you need a break, Ma.”

  “Maybe I need my daughter’s killer brought to justice.”

  Peter is too tired to cope with this. “What do you want me to do, Ma?”

  “I want you to go to the house,” Sherri says with exasperation.

  Peter is equally exasperated, this is the fourth in a series of calls, all demanding the same thing. The first call she blabbered on about hiring a private detective, since her son was too cowardly to go into the house himself. Then the next day she was talking about getting in touch with a clairvoyant, to try and find the truth, as she is sure her useless son still isn’t telling her everything. Even though they were a waste of money, at least they would try to help her. Next call she was talking about some nice people on the internet, who agreed with her that Anne-Marie had been murdered. Could Peter get them a copy of the autopsy report? Could he talk to them directly? No, she didn’t know who they were exactly but at least they were helpful.

  “Ma, can we talk about this tomorrow? I will call you after work.”

  “Oh sure, because work is more important. I can’t believe …”

  “Goodnight Ma,” Peter quickly interrupts, and he hears a howl of rage as he hangs up the phone. Maybe he should go to Daniel’s house, if he finds evidence that Daniel killed his sister, then maybe he can blackmail Daniel into killing his mother too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I do not feel safe living here any more!” Laura Noble wails to an indifferent audience.

  There are the usual mutters of agreement but nothing more. She wails the same thing at every meeting and it is getting old, especially since they have been meeting for over a year now.

  The meetings began as a way to vent their frustrations over Anne-Marie Mills, then they started discussing ways of getting rid of her, legally and then illegally. Now the topic has changed from Anne-Marie to Daniel Mills. Daniel, the one they used to see as a bumbling, quiet man, who had their full sympathies, they know now he is now a cold-blooded killer, a psychopath, a potential pervert. The real danger to the neighbourhood. Someone smart enough to fool the police. Someone with no morals or common decency. They fear him now more they ever feared Anne-Marie. At least she was predictable. Who knows what Daniel will do next? They have been watching him closely, waiting for the mistress to move in, or new things that suggested a lavish insurance pay out – but nothing. He didn’t kill Anne-Marie for love of another or for money. He could have just left her, committed her for being dangerous, done something kinder than pushing her down the stairs. Whilst no one amongst them could honestly say that they wished she was still alive, the general agreement was that killing her was a step too far.

  “I went to his house,” Laura continues, to gasps of astonishment and admiration for her bravery, “and he slammed the door in my face!” Laura conveniently doesn’t mention that a small token bunch of flowers was delivered to her house this morning, along with an apology for being so rude.

  “Well, I heard …” Usually when Lying Penny starts talking, people in this neighbourhood stop listening, but not this time. “I heard him going out at 11 o’clock last night. I think he was going to meet a lady.” Penny waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Don and I are talking about putting the house up for sale,” Gloria says. They are not just talking about it, the For Sale sign is going up next week. She doesn’t mention that Lying Penny is also part of the reason that they are going to move. That lying bitch nearly ruined her marriage. This starts off another angry discussion, as Michael and John also want to move and number three has been up for sale for over a year now, so won’t it look odd if three houses on the same street are all up for sale at the same time? Won’t it lower the value of the houses? Can’t they wait? Soon there will be no one left in this neighbourhood.

  “I am not leaving,” Ludmilla says firmly, as the argument starts to turn nasty. “I like my house.”

  “Well, what else can we do?”

  Daniel’s post-breakfast snooze is interrupted by the doorbell ringing. At first he doesn’t want to answer it, he is not expecting any visitors and he hasn’t ordered anything. The doorbell rings again and he groans as he pushes himself to his feet. It is probably the police. They have come to harass him or something similar.

  It is with some surprise that he sees Laura Noble and Ludmilla Bryski on his very clean doorstep. Ludmilla is even holding a chocolate cake in her hands.

  “Hi, Daniel, we thought we would come and see how you are,” Laura says, with forced cheerfulness. Daniel is hesitant, why are they really here? He knows he is supposed to invite them in, but should he? Will they notice the stain? The smell? But then if he does invite them in, perhaps the chocolate cake will be for him. He hasn’t had a home-made chocolate cake in years and it does smell irresistible.

  “Would you like to come in?” he finds himself saying. A look of fear crosses Ludmilla’s face, but Laura is eager.

  “Yes, please.” He ushers them quickly past the stairs, into the dirty lounge, suddenly feeling ashamed. No doubt they are noticing the
strong scent of the take-away pizza, the empty beer bottles. Well, what did they expect? He is single again. They sit on the sofa gingerly, Ludmilla holding out the cake for him to take.

  “Oh, is this for me?” he says eagerly.

  Ludmilla nods.

  “Shall we have a slice? Would you like a drink to go with it?” He is only offering to share because he suspects that the cake has been tainted with something nasty, bleach perhaps, a belief that is reinforced by the look on Lady Bitchski’s face. But to his surprise, Ludmilla nods and says she would like a cup of tea to go with her cake and so would Laura.

  He bounds into the kitchen, rushing to put the kettle on, hoping they can’t hear him frantically washing three cups and plates. He hopes the milk hasn’t gone off.

  Neither Laura nor Ludmilla move from the sofa, but both have turned their heads, so they can see the stairs. There is nothing worth noting there now, except a few small holes in the carpet. Daniel blunders back and forth, handing a cup of tea and a slice of cake to each lady, wishing he had replaced the ugly side table after Anne-Marie broke it, wishing they had more chairs.

  They never really had visitors, except for Peter and Sherri. He awkwardly brings a chair in from the kitchen, and sits clumsily holding his own tea and cake. There are a few awkward sips of tea and bites of cake. Then the inevitable praising of Ludmilla’s home-baking skills. She doesn’t mention this is the first time she has baked in a long time, just hasn’t felt like it, for some strange reason. She accepts the praises with a modest comment and the charade continues. Daniel wishes he had showered this morning and put some clean clothes on, if only he had known they were coming! They are being polite about it but he knows what they are thinking.

  “So, how are you?” Laura asks brightly, dropping her voice into what she thinks are caring tones.

  Daniel stammers. It has been so long since he interacted on a social scale with other humans that he has forgotten quite what to say.

  “It has been difficult, I imagine,” Laura continues in her special tones.

  Daniel nods.

  “You are very brave coming back to the house, I wouldn’t want to stay in a house where Derrick … I mean all those reminders!”

  Daniel stares intently down at his cup of tea.

  “How are your daughters?” He changes the conversation.

  “Oh, they are fine, as noisy as ever, ha ha. I will have to go soon to pick them up from a party.”

  “And Paul?”

  “He is fine,” Ludmilla says quietly. Paul is bumbling along quite happily, oblivious to everything. He had been annoying her lately, more than usual, tearing the house out, rooting around everywhere, leaving everything out of place. He was looking for some kind of present, he wouldn’t say what it was or who it was for, so naturally she refused to help.

  Daniel starts to feel sorry for all the times he called her Lady Bitchski over the years … and for Anne-Marie’s … well for Anne-Marie’s behaviour in general. He thinks back to the last argument he had with Ludmilla, both of them tired and at their breaking point. Nasty things had been said by both of them. But still, she is here now, she brought cake, there might be hopes of a reconciliation.

  More silence.

  “Well, we best be heading off now.” Laura stands. “I need to pick the girls up before lunchtime!” It’s not even eleven o clock yet, her cake is half-eaten, tea not even slightly cold. Ludmilla also quickly stands, saying nothing but not wanting to be left behind.

  Daniel feels a pang of desperation, he doesn’t want them to leave, doesn’t want to be left on his own again, but can’t think of anything to say that will make them stay. He grudgingly rises from his seat. He wants to clutch their hands, plead with them, make them understand that he is not guilty.

  “If there is anything you need or anything we can do to help, then you know where we are … oh! And I just wanted to let you know that one of my friends is an estate agent, if you were thinking about moving on, then let me know, he will be able to get you a good deal!” Subtlety, thy name is Laura.

  Colvin has gone through every witness report, every interview recording and transcripts, all the CCTV footage they can find and the bloodstain pattern analysis, everything that was recorded about the sudden demise of Anne-Marie Mills. It is one of the most puzzling cases she has come across so far. Senior officers have advised her to let it go, that it was either a nasty accident or a suicide. They didn’t think it was murder. “If you didn’t know there had been a fight,” they had said, “what would you think had happened? You would think suicide or accident, what other evidence is there for murder? None. Let it go.”

  Colvin will let it go, after they receive the DNA results, the last thing they are waiting for. After that there are no more leads to look into. Nothing that will stand up in court either. If Daniel did it, he didn’t do it for the money, Anne-Marie’s life was not insured. Daniel’s life was a policy all set up to take care of his wife in case of an accident. No inheritance either, Anne-Marie had nothing hidden away, except maybe a bottle of vodka; Daniel gained nothing financially by her death.

  If Daniel did do it, someone must have helped him. Colvin has gone through both Daniel Mills’ home phone records and his mobile. It is a pitiful record, the only numbers belonging to Sherri Fowler, Peter Fowler, Daniel’s work place and some take-away places. Unless Daniel was working closely with a pizza deliverer, then this was unlikely.

  There is still a small possibility that Anne-Marie had surprised or even tried to attack an opportunist burglar, also the possibility someone in the neighbourhood had entered the house with the intention of getting rid of the street’s problem for ever. There had been too many smudges for the forensic team to lift any clear fingerprints or footprints from the hallway and it was evident that no one in the area liked Anne-Marie Mills, that she was more than just a problem. There had been too many guilty looks of relief when they were informed of Anne-Marie’s passing. But then Colvin thinks of the people they interviewed: an elderly frail couple, a chaotic family and an eccentric old lady. None of these were really people who would win a fight against someone like Anne-Marie, as drunk as she was. Most of her other neighbours were at work, their alibis confirmed, the only person who didn’t have an alibi apart from Daniel Mills was Sherri Fowler.

  “Sam?” Grimm interrupts her thoughts.

  “Yeah?”

  “We have to go.”

  She grabs her camera and notepad.

  “Female found dead in a flower bed,” Grimm tells her as they walk out of the door. “Throat slit, she has a number …”

  And that’s the last Colvin thinks about Anne-Marie Mills, for a little while.

  “Murderer!” The word pierces through him. “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!” The unrecognisable voice chants.

  “I am not a murderer!” he protests weakly.

  “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!” That horrible word over and over again until Daniel slams down the phone. He feels shaky and sick, and a panicky feeling spreads through his body. He already felt guilty for eating the rest of Ludmilla’s chocolate cake in one sitting. He couldn’t help it, he had sat down with a fork, intending to only have a little bit more, trying to figure out why they had bothered to come round in the first place, then before he knew it, the plate was empty. He should clean up in case they came back. They will come back, Ludmilla Bryski will want her plate back.

  His fingers rub over a noticeable chip on the faded plate. No, they won’t be coming back, they probably just wanted to see where Anne-Marie died. Something to gossip about. He is everyone’s favourite topic after all.

  The phone rings again. Daniel picks it up without thinking. “Hello?”

  “How does it feel to have murdered your wife?” a voice hisses.

  Daniel slams the phone down and marches back into the kitchen.

  He doesn’t know what to do. Should he call the police? It seems such a tri
vial matter and he doesn’t want the callers to know they are getting to him. If he stops reacting, they will go away. His eyes fall on a stray bag of doughnuts and automatically his hand reaches out. Sugar will help him think, despite the fact his head is already pounding from the chocolate cake overload. He needs something to help him think about what his next move will be.

  You need to stop eating, he tells himself, in the exact same tone he used to tell his wife that she needed to stop drinking. As an incentive he tries to picture what would happen if he does keep eating. The protective blubber would continue to swell, shielding him and steering him towards death. No one would know if anything happened to him, he is alone. He could have an accident and only the local pizza place would notice he was gone. They would be the only ones to miss him. And because life is a bitch sometimes, he would probably end up dying at the foot of the stairs, right in the arms of Anne-Marie. Everyone whispering that it was karma or guilt. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath this time, the funeral fees and so on, that would be someone else’s problem. If there was a funeral, Sherri would have him thrown to the dogs if she could.

  Daniel is feeling like a man who has eaten a whole bag of doughnuts can feel, which is not that great. He thinks about cleaning again, about showering, about washing his clothes, but it’s another hot day and he is tired and feels sick, very sick. He sits in front of the television for a quick rest and later wakes to darkness, the only light coming from the television. There is an annoying repetitive sound, not coming from the television, and he blinks and looks around in confusion before finally realising that it is the phone. He jumps to his feet, no one ever calls him this late at night, it must be an emergency.

  “Hello?”

  “Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

  “Fuck off!” he shouts and slams the phone down. The shaky feeling comes screaming back, and his neck is burning from an afternoon sleeping on the sofa, plus his head hurts. He thinks about calling someone, asking if he can stay with them, just for one night, just so he can have some peace, away from the phone, away from her. But who can he call? He has no one left. He shivers, alone in the dark. Daniel doesn’t like the dark any more. It’s not that he is afraid, well maybe he is a little afraid. But the dark brings loneliness and Anne-Marie’s ghost; at night she is back in the spare room, trapped, hammering noiselessly at the door to be let out. Every time he dares to look at the stairs, he expects to see her standing there, staring. If he goes to sleep, she wakes him up, calling for him or singing, or whispering, “Danny, I need a plaster.”