Who Killed Anne-Marie?

by CM Thompson

  Hey, sorry again about yesterday. I am going to put the house up for sale. Please ask your mother if she wants any of Anne-Marie’s things, thanks, Daniel.

  “I thought I would volunteer to help him clear out Anne-Marie’s things,” Peter says quickly.

  “And bring everything to me?”

  Peter nods.

  Sherri could almost hug her son in her excitement. He hasn’t redeemed himself quite yet but if he brings back something incriminating then all is forgiven.

  Hi Daniel, yes Sherri would like all of Anne-Marie’s things. Peter

  Grimm and Colvin had been ordered to give a talk at one of the local schools on knife crime. Colvin presumes that they are meant to be against it. She is happy to let Grimm do the talking on this one, since he is under the belief that children like him. As Grimm begins lecturing on knife crime and how really uncool it is to carry a knife, Colvin gazes around, looking up at the three hundred or so bored young faces, some of whom she recognises. She notices at least seven children and one teacher sneakily chewing gum. One girl is nonchalantly checking her phone, ignoring a nearby teacher’s warnings, but there is something else.

  Something is not right.

  Colvin takes a few slow steps into the audience, ignoring the whispers of the more boisterous pupils and teachers. She stands in front of one boy, a tough looking boy who looks like he has more spots than sense. She meets his challenging gaze for a few moments.

  “Hand it over,” she commands, holding out her hand, not to him of course but to the weedy looking boy behind him. The boy looks around astonished and seeing no other option, drops a small knife quickly onto her palm. The other children chant their disapproval or support in an “Ooh Caleb” chorus.

  After the uproar had died down, after the boy had been marched out of the room for more than a stern talking to, Grimm had to finish his speech as calmly as possible, ignoring the excited whispers. Those kids will be talking about Colvin for weeks to come. Caleb Bullrush will never forget her.

  “How did you know?” Grimm asks later.

  Colvin just smiles, mutters something and changes the subject as soon as possible. Why that one boy out of all those assembled today? She can’t quite say why, there had just been something about him. She noticed something odd and acted on it. She is just quietly grateful that her hunch played off.

  She goes to bed that night, still wondering, still running over the assembly in her mind. Maybe if she could understand what it was, maybe she could use that superpower to catch the new bad guy.

  At 3 am her eyes snap open with a sudden clarity, a single thought comes to her mind.

  Sleeves.

  Sleeves?

  Sleeves, something to do with sleeves.

  She had noticed the boy, Caleb constantly touching that pocket, assuring himself that nothing was visible, unconsciously signalling the very thing he wanted to hide. Someone else had done that too, someone more confident than Caleb. She had missed it at the time, they didn’t do it constantly, but they had still checked a few times. Colvin rubs her eyes, trying to think. Did it matter? Her mind starts dredging up her last few cases: the rape victim, the unfortunate Mrs Mills, the stabbing victim, that flower bed victim, the one that they are trying not to think about, the hit-and-run, and that’s only the recent cases. She tries to remember each suspect, each interview, but her mind is refusing to cooperate, only hints that she has missed something. She can’t quieten her mind long enough to go back to sleep. Colvin yawns and grabs her phone, sets herself a reminder – sleeves – a notification that will mean little at 7 am. Then she lies back on the pillow, trying to sleep. It has been a hot summer, no one has been wearing sleeves unless they really had to.

  Margie, she thinks, Margie, the corner shop assistant in the Mrs Mills case, she had been wearing sleeves, constantly fiddling with them nervously, and the boy today had the same nervous expression as she did. That must be it. She has watched that video too many times. Yes, it just must have been Margie, she thinks. She wants to go back to sleep but now the thinking won’t stop.

  That woman, the woman they still can’t find a name for, the one found dead in a flower bed, her death remarkably similar to another poor woman’s death, the one found three weeks before. It wasn’t one of Colvin’s cases, she doesn’t know too much about it yet but the rumours are hinting that both deaths are incredibly similar to a whole spree of deaths that happened two years ago. A spree that slashed a gaping hole into the heart of the city, one people have only pretended to recover from.

  No one is using the word serial killer yet, in fact they are using every word they can except serial killer, even amongst themselves, making sure that no details are being published. No one knows just how similar this new serial killer is to the old one, no one trusted anyone, after what happened last time. Colvin transferred to this city eighteen months ago, but even she knows about the scars the last serial killer left. She knows the legend of the woman she replaced and knows she is wearing outsized shoes.

  She is trying to get her mind focused, concentrate on outsmarting this new bastard, but she can’t stop thinking about Anne-Marie Mills, can’t let go of the case that everyone else thinks is solved. She can’t stop thinking about the sleeves, the giveaway twitches, the feeling that they had missed something big. She knows they missed something, just like she knew that boy had something he shouldn’t have. The only thing she can do to get rid of the feeling is to act on it, talk to the source, talk to Margie.

  It’s not Margie, her feelings insist, but she can’t think who else it might be. That’s why, the following morning, bleary-eyed Colvin walks slowly up and down the cul-de-sac where Anne-Marie had lived, terrorised and died. She is trying to deduce who might be home and what questions she could ask, a stall before she goes to see Margie.

  She stops in front of each house, trying to recall its occupant, what information they gave, what they wore the day they interviewed them. She hears a door creak open behind her, she spins around to see a middle-aged woman wearing a distinctive bright red and purple patchwork top, coming out of number eight.

  “Excuse me, are you Gloria Hutchinson?” Gloria looks up in surprise, her eyes widening at the sight of Colvin or perhaps at the sight of the police car behind Colvin. The look of sheer alarm on Gloria’s face is worth the risk of guessing, since Colvin has now caught her off guard by guessing her name. This woman is hiding something, she just knows it. Gloria stammers a “Yes” then regains control of herself. She laughs the moment away with a nervous high-pitched laugh.

  When Colvin asks if she can talk about Anne-Marie Mills, Gloria lets out an over-exaggerated sigh of relief.

  “Oh thank goodness, you had me worried that something else bad had happened.” Gloria tries to gaily trill. “I am sorry, Officer, but I am on my way to a really important meeting. I really must go.”

  She darts off before Colvin can stop her, trotting nervously down the street and quickly out of sight.

  Colvin finishes her patrol of the neighbourhood, lingering at Lying Penny’s door, still regretting that she hasn’t met this particular occupant yet – the only person who has ever made Grimm lose his temper. She debates ringing the doorbell but can’t think of a decent reason why she should.

  “Beware of giving fodder to fools,” her grandmother’s advice echoes in her mind. She slowly walks away, peering occasionally to look for giveaway curtain twitches.

  Someone is watching her, she knows that, but can’t figure out who. Lying Penny? Ludmilla Bryski? Or even Daniel Mills? She tries vainly to catch them but fails. Maybe she is just tired, she is overthinking this, exaggerating a small event to give meaning to something that had little meaning. What happened to Anne-Marie was a senseless accident, she tells herself, echoing her commander’s words, she needs to stop making it into something else and get back to the bigger picture. But she can’t, she is drawn back to this case over and over, to the point that Colvin is starting to drive herself crazy. Sighing heavily, Colvin dec
ides to revisit Margie’s shop; might as well, she still has an hour before she is due to meet Grimm and it is the reason she came here today after all.

  Moments after she enters the shop, after Margie nervously greets her, Colvin just happens to look up, automatically checking out the security mirror, just in time to see a familiar patchwork top hastily leaving the premises.

  “What did she just buy?” Colvin asks abruptly.

  Margie knows better than to pretend she doesn’t know who Colvin is talking about. “Just … just … just some milk and eggs.” Margie doesn’t want any trouble.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Daniel had expected Sherri to say she wanted everything that belonged to her precious Anne-Marie, Sherri didn’t like to miss out. She is welcome to everything Anne-Marie owned, although she is going to be disappointed.

  Still, Daniel is in a jolly mood, no one has egged his door since last night, the phone calls have stopped, standing up to Sherri was worth it. He should have done it years ago, should have done a lot of things years ago. He has even come round to the idea of moving house, there is nothing left for him here. They hadn’t intended to live in this house for long. The plan had been to have the baby and then move to somewhere bigger, comfier, once Anne-Marie was working again. It had never really felt like home. He will be glad to leave, he lies to himself. This is no more a home than his parents’ house was and look at how little he misses that place.

  A strong scent of decay fills the air in Anne-Marie’s bedroom, mixing with the smell of stale alcohol – the smell of a dead lover’s embrace. He crunches his way to the window, twirling the blinds to finally let some light in, but not enough so the neighbourhood can see in. Forcing the window open for the first time in over a year, it helps a little, but not a lot.

  He decides to start by collecting the broken glass. He should get a broom, start by sweeping up the big shards and then see what the vacuum cleaner will pick up. He turns, expecting to see his wife in the doorway, demanding to know why he was in her room, screaming at him to get out.

  She isn’t there but the Fuck you Daniel blazes from the wall.

  His wife’s final words to him. Words more heartbreaking than anything else she had ever done. He can get another pen and cover it over, or even some paint, but he will still know it’s there. It will always be there. He thinks about going back to the sofa, but if he does that, then he will never get out of here. He has to get out of here. He has to get Anne-Marie out of here too.

  He fills the bucket with the usual lemony water, he is really starting to hate the smell of lemons. Soon, he promises himself, he will never have to smell lemons again. He collects a mop, broom, dustpan and a bottle of beer for courage.

  He sweeps carefully, not wanting to add any fresh blood to the dried blood spots. He fills two double-bagged bin bags with broken glass and two more carrier bags with empty but intact bottles. He cautiously carries these outside along with the broken bedside table, straight into the boot of his car. Then he has a second bottle of beer, since the first went down so well. He sweeps again, half filling a third bag, then he vacuums, but even after all of that, he can still see tiny diamonds of glass, embedded in the wooden floor, mocking him. He knows he will have to sweep again. Tomorrow, there is no rush. Baby steps, he reminds himself.

  He is going to do two more things in this room, then he is finished for the day. He starts with the bed, it still looks and smells like Anne-Marie has just left it. Hesitantly, he picks up the pungent duvet, the pillows and the mattress and drags them downstairs. He strips the duvet and pillows of their polka dot covers, putting the covers into the washing machine and then, panting heavily, he wrestles the single mattress, stained duvet and pillows into the now full car.

  Nearly there, he tells himself, heading back upstairs. Last job is to carefully mop the floor, scrubbing hard at the dried spots and smears. So it can dry overnight, and he can start again tomorrow. He thinks of all the times he has had to do this, but this time is the last time. His anger has gone now, he doesn’t feel sad either. He just wants this to be over. He is going to leave here, he tells himself, although he hasn’t figured out where he is going or what he is going to do but it is a start. He is not going to end up like Anne-Marie.

  He takes the carload to the tip, windows down the whole way, carefully watching in his wing mirror for any followers. He unloads as quickly as he can.

  “Goodbye, Anne-Marie!” he says quietly as he throws away the spoiled mattress. “I love you,” a choked whisper as he tosses the bin bags, the final goodbye.

  He arrives back home with a Chinese take-away, settling comfortably in front of the television with another bottle of beer. Already the house feels lighter, less haunted. He is doing the right thing, he assures himself with a gulp of beer.

  The next morning, he wakes up with a sore head and sore muscles. He overexerted himself yesterday but it was worth it. He needs to keep going. He hangs the wet polka dot covers outside. It has been a long time since he has been out to the garden, sometimes he forgets he has one. He needs to mow the grass, before that he needs to pick up all the stray bottles and cans Anne-Marie had flung outside. So many times he caught her out at two or three in the morning, sitting on the long grass, staring up at the stars … or at the houses that overlooked them. He never intruded, never asked her why she was out there. She was being quiet, that was the main thing, except when she flung a bottle into the neighbours’ gardens, cackling as she did so. When Daniel had begged her to stop, she denied it was her. No wonder the neighbours hated her so much. He should apologise to Ludmilla Bryski before he goes. He leaves the covers flapping in the autumn wind as he retreats back into his house.

  He goes back into the spare bedroom. Now the mattress is gone, he can see clearly what was under the bed. A plastic tub, containing towels, clearly rifled. He shakes each towel out carefully, before placing into the bin bag, still hoping for a note, a last goodbye. Nothing. A half-full bottle of vodka lies discarded, out of reach. Most likely she dropped it, it rolled under the bed and she forgot about it, or accused him of stealing it. He sniffs it gingerly and then takes a sip, it is definitely vodka. Waste not, want not, he thinks, taking a gulp to help his muscle ache.

  He looks at the half-tom curtains. He should have taken these to the tip yesterday too. He remembers the day he put these up, a proud expectant father. It didn’t matter if the baby was going to be a boy or a girl, Anne-Marie had decided she liked the curtains so these were the curtains that were going up. Another gulp of vodka. He carefully takes them down, examines them, folds them carefully, hugging them close to his heart and then drops them into the awaiting bin bag. Anne-Marie said she thought it was a girl. She had wanted to call it Lisa Marie. Daniel had happily agreed, not realising the Elvis connection until Sherri had gleefully pointed it out. Another long gulp of vodka. He was going to nickname his daughter LizzieBee. Another long gulp to drown the sobs threatening to emerge. He finishes off the vodka, adding that to the bin bag, and then surveys his handiwork. There is nothing left in this room except some dusty blinds, a bed frame and a Fuck You Daniel screaming from the wall. He will get some paint soon, he assures himself. One job at a time, one room emptied, two more to go.

  “Their” bedroom next, no longer will he wake up with an instant reminder. Everything must go. He starts with their wardrobe, folding her clothes into a bag, ready to give to Sherri. It is a miserable collection of stained outfits. Sherri will no doubt blame him. He crouches down to lift her two pairs of shoes out of the bottom of the wardrobe. They are strangely heavy. A small bottle of something lodged in each one, four little bottles all hidden in plain sight. He places the bottles tenderly on his bedside table, where their wedding picture used to be. Oh, what the hell, he thinks and opens one. Tequila on top of vodka? Why not. He might as well get rid of some of his clothes too, the ones that no longer fit. He is going to take some more stuff to the tip anyway. The alcohol has left him feeling warm and reckless, ready to start cleaning
out the last place, the attic. Whatever doesn’t go to Sherri, he will take to the tip, he promises as he pulls down the attic stairs and unsteadily climbs up.

  Anne-Marie had gone through a manic shopping phrase, buying workout gear, jewellery-making equipment and cookery books, so many impulse buys that weeks later, she couldn’t stand the sight of, couldn’t return either. They had all been shoved up here, out of sight. He carefully examines each piece, still checking for hidden notes before dumping each item into a bin bag. No doubt Sherri will look through all this junk whilst angrily exclaiming, “What is this shit?” It is her problem now. She won’t be able to return it to him because he will be gone, gone, gone!

  A wrapped Christmas present from years ago lies on the floor. To Sherri, with love from Anne-Marie and Daniel. Anne-Marie and Sherri had had a massive row that year, and it had easily been the best Christmas ever. Just him and Anne-Marie, blissfully drinking in front of the television, eating crap.

  To make it even better, Anne-Marie and Sherri didn’t speak to each other for nearly three months, not until Anne-Marie announced she was pregnant. A vodka-induced thought stirs at the back of his mind, the forbidden thought resurfacing, that he tries to ignore. No, that thought won’t go away. Daniel goes over the evidence again in his mind. Anne-Marie never bought maternity clothes, never brought anything for the baby except the elephant curtains. But they bought the house because of the baby. He had stopped threatening to leave because of the baby, his little LizzieBee. They had never even attempted to try again. He hadn’t wanted to try again until Anne-Marie was better. Anne-Marie had found his weight gain too repulsive to want to try again.

  But he had collected her from the hospital that day, she had sobbed when she told him the baby was gone. She had gone to therapy sessions alone. She could cry on demand, he reminds himself, and he fell for it every time. His mind starts listing the other evidence: she hated her job, maybe she had been fired and used the baby lie to leave. Maybe she had used the baby lie to reconcile with her mother. To keep him on a chain. But then she had been so sad afterwards. They never talked about the baby that might have been, but he caught her longingly looking at other children. He always wanted a family, she knew that. She wouldn’t lie to him like that. Just like she wouldn’t lie about stealing her brother’s wallet or about the haircut. His head hurts, he is drunk, he shouldn’t think such things. It wasn’t true. LizzieBee had existed, she wouldn’t lie about something as important as that. She wouldn’t!