The Couple on Cedar Close

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘Monica Lewis, a close friend and neighbour of both Laurie Mills and the deceased, who lives opposite the Millses’ place, claims that Laurie came over to her house around 8.15 p.m. She was in a distressed state, but Mrs Lewis claims that this was pretty standard by all accounts and there was nothing to trigger any alarm bells, no blood on Laurie’s clothes, nothing to indicate anything sinister had taken place. She’d been drinking, though again, this was nothing unusual apparently, and she was upset that her husband had stood her up. Laurie Mills expressed some concern that her husband might’ve been involved in an accident and maybe that’s why he hadn’t shown up—’

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ Delaney remarks dryly.

  ‘Car accident, specifically,’ I continue.

  ‘So, how come Laurie Mills didn’t mention the fact that she went over to her neighbour’s house around the TOD in interview? Seems a little odd she wouldn’t want to exonerate herself, or give herself the best alibi she could.’

  ‘I agree, Martin,’ I say, ‘but that’s just it. Laurie Mills doesn’t seem to remember very much past 7.30 p.m. at all. Visiting her friend, cutting her wrists, passing out upstairs—’

  ‘Selective memory, if you want my opinion.’

  I don’t. ‘Perhaps,’ I say.

  ‘So why didn’t she just call him when he didn’t show up – the husband – check he was alright?’ Murray asks. ‘That would be the obvious thing to do, no?’

  I open my hands. If there’s one thing I have learned about both murder and the human condition, it’s that nothing is ever obvious. ‘Well in ordinary circumstances it would be, but the dynamics of the Millses’ relationship were pretty tricky by all accounts. Seems that Robert Mills was something of an emotional abuser, liked to play mind games, screw around with his wife’s head. Laurie Mills felt, so she told Monica Lewis, that he’d not shown on purpose, that he’d deliberately stood her up, that he was on some kind of power trip maybe. Monica Lewis advised her not to call him, thought it would be playing into his hands. She says they talked for a while, drank some wine together and at around 10.40 p.m. Laurie Mills returned to her house; Lewis claims she watched her walk through her front door.’

  ‘Can anyone corroborate this?’ Delaney says.

  ‘No.’ I say plainly. But I believe it.

  ‘She could have already killed him at this point though,’ Mitchell speculates. ‘She could’ve committed the murder, changed her clothes, washed up a bit, then gone over to her friend’s to ensure she had an alibi.’

  ‘But the estimated time of death was around or after 8 p.m., according to the coroner. Monica Lewis says Laurie Mills arrived at her house at around 8.15 p.m. It’s unlikely, given Laurie Mills’ disposition, though admittedly not impossible, that she could’ve killed her husband in such a frenzied and brutal attack, washed and cleaned herself up and then just nipped across the road to see her friend for a few drinks and a chat in the space of around fifteen minutes. Plus, Monica claims that Laurie was wearing the same dress she had on when we brought her in, and there wasn’t a speck of blood on it at that time.’

  ‘So it’s possible that someone snuck into the Millses’ house while Laurie was at her neighbour’s place, murdered Robert Mills and then left,’ Davis says rhetorically. ‘So how did they get into the property?’

  ‘Yes, it’s possible and that, well, we don’t know yet.’

  ‘She was drunk, right?’ Mitchell says. ‘She could’ve forgotten to close the door properly. Or left the back door unlocked.’

  ‘All possible,’ I agree. ‘So let’s not rule out an outsider. Someone could’ve been watching the place, staking it out. They could have seen Laurie leave and taken their chance. Mills was a womaniser by all accounts, so let’s not rule out a jealous husband or boyfriend, or even a spurned lover.’

  Delaney, I note, is shaking his head.

  ‘Any thoughts you want to share, Martin?’ I mock-smile at him.

  ‘No,’ he says, pausing before adding, snidely, ‘Gov.’

  I turn my attention back to the team. ‘Rawlins, I want you and Harding to get on to that solicitors as soon possible. Find out when that letter advising Laurie Mills that Robert was planning to divorce her was drafted. Find out what was discussed, okay?’

  Harding holds her pen up as if to say got it.

  ‘Murray?’ I look over at Jill. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Um, yes, Gov. CCTV. Most of the residents at Cedar Close have it, including number 13, so we’re collating it, then we’ll go through it and see what turns up.’

  ‘What about the power cut?’ Delaney asks. ‘Laurie Mills said something about there being no power when she switched on the lights.’

  I nod.

  ‘Bit convenient, don’t you think?’ he continues. ‘I mean, she wakes up to a dark house, can’t see anything, no power, no memory… seems like a strange coincidence to me.’

  ‘Possibly,’ I say dryly. ‘So get on to the rest of the neighbours. Find out if anyone else’s electric was down around the same time. And get an electrician down there, check nothing’s been tampered with, yes?’

  I think I see Delaney’s face fall a touch and I struggle not to feel smug. Well, seeing as he brought it up, he can deal with it, although I sense he deems this kind of detective work beneath him. ‘And I want all the neighbours questioned, even the ones you’ve already spoken to. What they saw, what they heard, any background on the Millses. Oh, and ask about the summer barbecue. Allegedly Laurie Mills had a very public meltdown in front of the whole street when she discovered that her husband was still cheating on her with his mistress, so get the low-down on that.’

  ‘Doesn’t warrant her killing the poor bastard though, does it?’ Delaney says.

  I notice that he’s looking at Davis again and a knot forms in my stomach. I’m hoping it’s just hunger.

  ‘No, Martin, it doesn’t,’ I agree. ‘But it might go some way as to explaining why she did, if she did. Which brings me on to another bit of info. Laurie was eight months pregnant with twins when she discovered her husband’s infidelity, and she was involved in a serious car accident the day she found out. She had to be cut out of the wreck, and the babies had to be cut out of her. Both of them died.’

  The room falls silent. That shuts everyone up. I knew it would because it had a similar effect on me when Monica Lewis told me.

  ‘Understandably, Laurie suffered from depression and some sort of mental breakdown following the accident and the death of her babies, developing an alcohol and prescription-drug dependency, so we need to get in touch with her GP and therapist to see if they can or will tell us anything. Find out what meds she was taking, any side effects, that sort of thing. Oh, and put a rush on the CCTV. Monica Lewis says she has it, or did, but it recently broke and she hadn’t got round to replacing it. We know that Robert Mills entered his house at some point and never came out again. We need times… we need factual, hard evidence, people, not hearsay. Footage, forensics, witnesses… you know the drill.’

  ‘What about the mistress, Gov? Claire somebody,’ Davis asks.

  ‘Claire Wright,’ I say. ‘Yes, Claire Wright, Robert Mills’ mistress and the mother of his eight-month-old baby girl. They live in Luton. We need to pay Miss Wright a visit, give her the good news, if she hasn’t already heard by now.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, boss – you want me to do that?’ Davis looks at me, her eyes slightly raised in expectation.

  ‘You and me, Davis,’ I say, smiling at her as I catch a well-disguised but just about visible look of annoyance on Delaney’s face.

  Twenty

  Kiki – aged 13

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘What do I think of what?’

  ‘Of the dress, stupid?’ She does a little twirl, eager to see his reaction. It’s a grown-up dress; one of those ra-ra ones that all the cool, older girls at school wear.

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  She taps her nose with her finger
. ‘Never you mind where it came from. What do you think of it?’ She twirls round again. The dress has made her happy. She feels sexy in it, alluring and trendy. It will turn heads at the disco tonight. She’s heard that Steve Thornton wants to dance with her and she’s excited, not because she particularly fancies Steve Thornton but because he’s shown an interest in her and this makes her feel powerful. He’s in the year above her at school and has a reputation for being a bit of a bad boy. Apparently he nicked his dad’s car once and drove it all the way down to the shopping centre before the police caught him. This alone is reason enough to like him.

  ‘Where are you going in it?’

  ‘To the school disco tonight. It’s at the youth centre. There’s going to be alcohol there and everything.’

  He pulls his headphones off his ears. ‘Can’t you piss off? I’m supposed to be studying. One of us has got to work towards getting us out of this shit pit.’

  She feels her bubble burst instantly. ‘What’s the matter with you? Don’t you like the dress? It’s the dress, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’ll never be allowed out the front door dressed like that,’ he says, looking her up and down.

  ‘Dressed like what?’

  ‘A little slut.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself!’ she says, placing a hand on her hip. ‘And the old bag can get stuffed. Anyway, I was hoping you’d distract her while I sneaked out.’

  He turns away from her, lies back down on the bed. ‘And why should I help you?’

  ‘Oh c’mon, what’s your problem? Why are you being so moody?’

  ‘I’m not moody. Just got shit to do, that’s all. Like I said, one of us has got to work towards getting us out of here. If I study hard and get a decent job then we’ll have enough money to run away together. That is what you want, isn’t it, Kiki?’

  ‘You know it’s what I want, what I’ve always wanted.’ She goes over to him, touches his arm. His bruises are fading now, almost gone. Her own are hidden by her dress. They’re far too careful to leave marks that would be visible. ‘But I want to go to the disco too. Are you going to help me or not?’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ he asks.

  ‘Name your price.’

  His small, almost Machiavellian grin develops slowly. ‘Who you going to the disco with?’

  ‘Tina and the others,’ she says, propping herself up on her elbow as she joins him on the bed.

  ‘And Steve Thornton? Is he going too?’

  She sits up. ‘How do you know about Steve Thornton?’

  He taps his nose this time. ‘I know everything, Kiki.’

  There’s a moment before the realisation dawns. ‘Oh my God! You’ve been reading my diary!’

  He shrugs but doesn’t deny it.

  ‘You bastard! That’s my private stuff!’

  ‘There are no secrets between us, remember that. It’s just me a you, Kiki.’

  She looks down at the duvet cover, her face reddening. He’s read her diary, and now he knows everything about how she feels – about life, about love, about sex and Steve Thornton and about him too. She feels violated, exposed and ashamed.

  ‘Do you really think those things about me, Kiki?’ he asks, lightly teasing her. ‘Those things you wrote in your diary, those feelings you have, those sensations and tingles you sometimes get in private places—’

  She wants the ground to swallow her whole. She can’t bring herself to look at him. ‘You shouldn’t have read it,’ she manages to say, but she feels like crying and begins to.

  ‘Hey, why are you upset?’ He puts an arm around her, a protective arm. ‘You’ll mess up your make-up.’ He pulls her down next to him and holds her, just like they’d always done since they were small, when she would creep into his room in the dark of night and they would comfort each other, the warmth of their respective bodies like reassuring blankets. Despite his mean streak, he was the only one she trusted, her only source of affection.

  ‘Because it’s wrong to think those things.’ Her voice is tiny, barely audible. She buries herself into the nook of his armpit so that he can’t see her face. ‘Maybe Mum is right and I am a dirty sinner, just like my real mother.’

  ‘Hey.’ He pulls her head up towards him by her chin. ‘Stop with the shit talk. That’s crap and you know it. You’re not a sinner, Kiki; you’re a young woman, a human being – a normal, living, breathing human being. If anyone’s the sinner then it’s those bastard hypocrites downstairs—’

  ‘I feel ashamed.’

  ‘Well I don’t,’ he says, defiant. ‘I feel those things too.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About me?’ she can’t help asking.

  ‘Yes, about you, Kiki, only you. I only ever think about you.’

  ‘Just me?’

  He squeezes her waist playfully; she’s ticklish there, as he knows only too well.

  ‘Have you kissed him yet, this Steve Thornton guy?’

  ‘No!’ she says, a little too loudly. ‘I’ve never kissed anyone before, I swear.’

  ‘But you were planning to tonight, weren’t you?’

  ‘No!’ she says. ‘I wasn’t! I’m not!’

  ‘Liar!’ He laughs. ‘You were planning to lose your cherry to Steve Thornton because he drives a Ford Capri!’

  ‘Fuck off!’ she says, half laughing with him now, though she can’t get his words out of her head. You, Kiki, only you. I only ever think about you.

  ‘Anyway, you must’ve kissed loads of girls, and done it with them too,’ Kiki teases him back.

  ‘A few maybe,’ he says elusively. ‘Girls like me. I turn them on.’

  ‘Big-head.’

  ‘Big something…’ He smirks and she slaps him on the arm.

  ‘So, are you going to cover for me tonight or what?’ She brings the conversation full circle, their moment of awkwardness dissipating.

  ‘Yes, but first you need some practice.’

  ‘Practice?’

  ‘Yes. If you’re going to kiss Steve Thornton with the Capri tonight then you need to know what you’re doing. No one likes a sloppy kisser.’ He’s leaning over her now, his lips touching hers, and she closes her eyes, feels her heartbeat quicken. His tongue feels soft and warm as it enters her mouth and she sighs as it begins to play with her own.

  ‘Relax… gently,’ he whispers into her mouth and she sighs again as a thousand sensations rush through her, alien endorphins singing throughout her body.

  ‘I will cover for you tonight, Kiki,’ he says between kisses, ‘on one condition.’

  ‘Name it,’ she says, squirming beneath him, her mind and body struggling to process the pleasurable feelings she’s experiencing for the first time.

  ‘Lay with me tonight.’

  She has laid with Bertie since they were children, creeping in and out of one another’s bedrooms, timing down pat so as never to get caught. This time though she understands from his voice that he means something different, something else.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘tonight.’

  Twenty-One

  By the time Davis and I reach Claire Wright’s Luton apartment, the chicken and bacon sandwich I’d thrown down my neck on the journey has started to repeat on me. Davis had run into the service station for me after I’d told her to ‘grab the first thing off the shelf’. And she had, literally. It hasn’t gone down well.

  I wanted to ask Davis about Delaney on the drive down but I held myself in check. It’s not really my business at the end of the day, but it was a struggle not to fish for information. Instead I was a bit tricky and asked her what she and ‘the husband’ had planned for Christmas, which was a bit lame given that it’s only October. She gave me an odd look, like I’d lost the plot or something, and said, ‘Don’t know, Gov. Haven’t thought about it yet. Probably spend it at Mum’s like I always do, like we do most years.’

  Oddly though, she didn’t ask me why I had asked, which I found more telling than any answer she gave me.

&
nbsp; Anyway, Davis rings the bell to flat C and we wait.

  I’m not looking forward to this. And I don’t need to explain why. On its own, telling someone their loved one is dead, murdered no less, is not something any normal person would or could ever relish, unless they were a sadist. And now that I’ve been on the receiving end of such life-shattering news I find it harder to deal with than most. My guts are churning as Davis rings the bell again. I blame the sandwich.

  ‘Who is it?’ a harassed voice says over the intercom and I hear a baby grumbling in the background. It reminds me of my new neighbour and her offspring with impressive lungs, and I remember I’ve got that to look forward to when I get home. The joy never ends.

  ‘DI Dan Riley and DS Davis from CID. Is that Claire Wright? Miss Claire Wright?’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Yes… Yes, I’m Claire Wright. What’s this about?’

  I can hear the mix of fear and confusion in her voice. I imagine, like most people who are paid an unexpected visit from the plod, a thousand thoughts have just sprinted through her mind, none of them good.

  ‘Can we come up please, Claire?’ Davis says gently. ‘We need to speak to you.’

  I’m really hoping she’s not going to say, ‘What about?’ and I’m relieved when she presses the buzzer to let us in.