‘Monica Lewis killed Claire Wright. I think she killed Robert too.’
‘She did? Why? How do you know?’
‘The tattoo,’ I say. ‘Did you know that Monica Lewis has a tattoo of a lizard on her right foot?’
‘Jesus. She does?’
‘You need to stop answering a question with a question, Davis,’ I playfully berate her. ‘It’s very… American.’
‘It is?’ she replies in a bad American accent.
I somehow manage a smile.
The house is still and quiet. No sign of life. Davis checks downstairs while I go upstairs. There’s nothing of note in the bedroom, nothing out of place. I rifle through a few drawers – they’re practically full and her toothbrush is still in the en suite.
‘Well, her stuff looks like it’s still here,’ I say to Davis as she joins me in the bedroom. Yet something tells me Monica Lewis is already long gone.
Davis looks at me, bewildered. ‘Why would Monica Lewis want to kill Robert and Claire and then frame Laurie for it? Do you think she was having an affair with him?’
‘Yes, but it’s more than that. Did you find anything downstairs?’
Davis shakes her head. ‘Nothing, Gov. Maybe she’s just gone out on an errand somewhere, visiting a friend or something.’
I shake my head. ‘Kiki Mills. Monica Lewis is Kiki Mills. She set Laurie up. She killed Robert, provided Laurie with a false alibi—’
‘But why? If she wanted to frame her, why give her an alibi?’
‘Because she gave herself an alibi in the process and threw us off the scent at the same time. She deliberately kept the body warm to make it look like the murder had taken place later in the evening. He was already dead when Laurie came back to the house from the shops. Then she impersonated her, used her clothes, wore a wig, made sure she was seen by the neighbour getting into Laurie’s car—’
‘And then went to Claire’s apartment—’
‘… killed her and planted Laurie’s DNA at the scene. She framed her friend.’
‘But what’s the motive, boss? Jealousy? Pretty extreme lengths to go to—’
‘Did you catch Agnes’s expression? There was fear on that woman’s face. They know who Monica Lewis is, and they know that she and Kiki Mills are the same person.’
‘So who is she then? They said she was an old family friend—’
‘Family being the operative word, Davis.’
Davis looks at me, perplexed. ‘I’m not sure I follow you, Gov.’
‘Well, you need to follow me now, Davis,’ I say, making my way to the front door. I’ve just had the most terrible feeling, and if my instincts are correct, we haven’t got much time.’
Fifty-Seven
Leanna George checks her make-up in the mirror and listens out for the front door. She’s buzzing with adrenaline, so much so that it’s proving tricky to apply her third coat of lip gloss. The producer on the phone had said that she’d got her number from a journalist at the Gazette and that she was interested in casting her for a new reality TV show. And now she was on her way to her house to meet her in person!
You’d be perfect for it. Those were the actual words she’d used. You’re incredibly photogenic and you came across so well in interview. Leanna replays the conversation over in her head, basking in the glow of such complimentary feedback. She supposed she had hoped that by coming forward with her story it might get her noticed in some way and potentially lead to her getting booked for more work, but she could never have envisaged this. A reality TV show was exactly what she needed to take her career to the next level. Those reality TV stars, some of them had gone on to become properly famous, not to mention ridiculously rich. The possibilities were endless if you managed to capture the public’s heart. Endorsements, fitness videos, diet books, photo shoots, presenting jobs. Some had even ended up doing stints in soap operas and films. This really could be the big break she’d needed and been looking for. She wasn’t getting any younger and it was tough competing with girls half her age.
Leanna smiles at her reflection, hopeful. Maybe all that shite she’d had to endure with that bastard Robert was going to have been worth it.
‘Every cloud, eh, pet?’ she says aloud to herself, brushing through her tonged hair once more until it shone. If she managed to seduce the producer well enough she was guaranteed an ‘in’. The woman had sounded so keen to meet her that she’d insisted on coming over to speak to her directly that morning. Usually, she would have asked her to go through her agent but the woman, Kiki Miller, she’d said her name was, couldn’t wait and needed to see her immediately.
She shudders and giggles at the same time, brimming with anticipation and self-confidence.
Leanna’s already fantasising about becoming a household name and being interviewed by Phillip Schofield when she hears the doorbell ring.
Fifty-Eight
‘Leanna George?’ The woman cocks her head to one side and gives a convincing, friendly smile.
‘Kiki Miller, the producer I spoke with earlier, yes?’
‘That’s right. Gosh, you’re even more perfect in the flesh.’ She looks her up and down over-appreciatively and watches as Leanna’s ice-white smile widens. ‘Seriously, you really are going to be perfect for my new show.’
‘Please, come in,’ Leanna says, trying to contain her ego rush. ‘I’ve been really looking forward to meeting you; this is so exciting.’
Monica follows her inside, sizing the place up for CCTV. There isn’t any. Happy days. ‘Beautiful apartment,’ she says. ‘A woman with taste as well. I like it.’
‘Thank you so much. Please, please, sit down. Let me get you something to drink. What would you like? Tea, coffee, juice… something stronger? Some wine perhaps?’
She doesn’t hesitate. ‘I’d love a vodka, if you have any.’
‘Vodka! Ah, a woman after my own heart.’ Leanna is tickled pink.
It’s just as Monica thought: Leanna is a lush. She’s undoubtedly a pretty face, of course, Robert was always a sucker for one of those, but she can see the hard edges creeping in as she studies her. Years of boozing and whoring always takes its toll in the end.
‘Tonic or orange? I’ll join you in one.’
‘Orange please. Absolutely, and why not? We’re celebrating, after all.’
Leanna disappears from the room to fix the drinks, giving Monica the opportunity to check on the bottle of sulphuric acid she’s just bought from the hardware store where she’d stopped off on en route. She’d told the man behind the counter that she’d needed ‘the strongest they had, as she had a severe blockage’. It wasn’t entirely untrue when she thought about it: Leanna George was the last ‘blockage’ that needed to be dealt with. She hadn’t even had to strong-arm her into having a drink with her like she’d anticipated. Bloody pisshead.
‘As soon as I saw your story in the local paper I felt I had to get in touch,’ Monica calls out to her from the living room. ‘It really… resonated.’ She pauses thoughtfully. ‘I think it’s important that women speak out about domestic abuse, especially beautiful women like yourself. It debunks the myth that it only happens to doormats and plain Janes.’
Leanna returns with the drinks and hands her one. She would put money on them being double measures. ‘Cheers,’ she says, chinking her glass to Leanna’s with some purpose.
‘Cheers. Here’s to a successful meeting and working together in the future.’
Leanna’s wide, gormless grin sickens Monica. Women like Leanna can’t get enough of an ego stroke. No wonder she ended up in Robert’s bed. No effort required.
‘Oh yes, I’ll drink to that. I couldn’t believe it when you called me,’ Leanna gushes. ‘I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this to come along. I’m just so glad I went to the press now. That I came out and told the truth about my ex.’
The words ‘my ex’ set Monica’s teeth on edge and it’s all she can do to swallow back the mouthful of vodka and
orange she’s just taken.
‘Your “ex” met a rather unpleasant end, didn’t he? Although reading your story, some might say he had it coming to him.’
‘Aye.’ Leanna nods, taking a swig of her drink. ‘It was still awful, like. I mean, I hated what he did, but him being murdered like that… I never wished him dead. Whatever he did, he didn’t deserve to die like that. No one does, do they?’
Monica smiles. ‘Yes, well, not everyone is as empathetic and kind as you, Leanna. He betrayed you, didn’t he? Had a wife, and a mistress with a love child. He told you that you were the only one, didn’t he?’
Leanna shifts in her seat. Monica can see she’s not interested in talking about Robert anymore. She never really loved him, not like she did. She just wants to cut to the chase now. The TV show, that’s all she’s really interested in. Fame. Fortune. Just another gold-digging, glory-seeking whore. She doesn’t care about domestic abuse, or its victims. It’s all just an excuse to further her career opportunities.
‘Aye, I had no idea the man was married. Never knew about the mistress, or the kid – none of it.’ Leanna sighs. ‘That man led more than one life, yet accused me non-stop of being the cheat. I changed me whole life for him too, like, did everything I could to convince him and please him, jumped through flaming hoops for that lying piece of shit. He was mugging me off the whole time. Not to mention the others too.’
Leanna’s eyes look like they’re filling up with tears now. Not a bad little actress really. Bitch would probably do well on some third-rate reality show.
‘They’re saying, the police, that the wife lost the plot and killed him. I think I would’ve too if I’d spent all them years married to a treacherous bastard like that. He nearly sent me off me head in two years, so I can only imagine what he did to that poor woman he was wed to.’
Monica looks at her closely. She studies Leanna’s lips as she speaks, imagines them wrapped around Robert’s dick, and no doubt countless others, as she rests her hand gently against the flap of her handbag, the outline of the bottle palpable inside. She almost feels sorry for her; another of Bertie’s victims, sucked in by his inimitable charm only to be fooled and used, duped and confused. He would never have loved a girl like Leanna – not truly.
‘Well, you’re going to make a great poster girl for abused women the world over. Women who have suffered domestic abuse and survived it. It’s a great hook. I mean, professionally speaking, it helps if viewers can relate to human-interest stories. You come across as a down-to-earth woman, which is always a hit.’
Leanna looks like she wants to lick herself. ‘So, tell me a little about this show then,’ she says brightly. ‘It’s one of them reality things? Like Love Island for grown-ups?’
‘Yes, that’s it… But the contestants have all faced adversity at some stage during their lives. We want real people, you know, people who’ve lived, experienced a bit of life… People like yourself. We’re hoping to start shooting by Christmas. The concept is pretty straightforward and… oh God!’ Monica deliberately misses the low glass coffee table as she attempts to place her vodka and orange down onto it. She watches in mock horror as it spills over the floor, and all over Leanna’s pristine cow-print rug. ‘I’m so sorry!’
Leanna jumps up. ‘It’s no bother at all, pet. Not to worry. I’ll get a cloth. Shall I make you another one?’
Monica pretends to look embarrassed. Leanna’s accent is grating on her. She wishes she’d brought a knife now. Stabbed the bitch through the heart. ‘Oh, would you?’ she says apologetically. ‘I’m such a klutz. I’m really sorry.’
‘No bother, pet.’ Leanna is still beaming that ridiculous smile as she leaves the room.
She waits a moment for her to return with a cloth and watches as she dabs at the stain on the rug.
‘There. No harm done. Let me get you another.’
‘Thank you, Leanna.’ As soon as she leaves the room again, Monica takes the bottle from her handbag and pours the contents into the half-empty glass, giving it a quick swirl around to mix the liquid before replacing it.
Leanna returns moments later with a refreshed glass.
‘Right then. Sorry about that,’ Monica apologises once more. ‘How about let’s do that toast again. Down in one, yes?’
Leanna laughs at the suggestion but needs no encouragement. ‘Are you sure you’re not from Newcastle?’ she says with a laugh, picking her glass up and throwing the remainder of the contents down her neck.
Fifty-Nine
‘I need to speak to the detective – the one with the kind eyes, Detective Riley!’ Laurie has been pounding on the door of her cell until her fists feel like they’re about to crumble. ‘Will someone listen to me! It’s important! It’s about my friend, Monica Lewis. Please, someone… anyone… I need to speak to that detective.’
My friend. Monica flashes up in her mind. Her face so familiar, yet suddenly a total stranger’s. She’d remembered. Finally. The night of Robert’s murder, she had opened her eyes and seen her. It was Monica carrying her up the stairs. And the night of Claire’s murder, she remembers now that she’d woken up and gone to the window and seen Monica getting into her car. She’d seen her. She’d been wearing her dress, and her ballet pumps and a long dark wig. Laurie had thought she’d dreamt it. She’d truly believed that she had. Only it wasn’t a dream at all. It had been real and she’d seen it.
Laurie attempts to remember as much detail as possible – anything, however small, to help corroborate her memory. The old woman from across the road, the blind one, Mrs Foster, the one whose foot she had trodden on at the ill-fated barbecue, she had seen her sitting at her window looking out.
With her new-found clarity, Laurie realises that Monica has been pumping her full of pills ever since the accident. It had been Monica who’d suggested she start on the antidepressants, then the Valium. Now she really thought about it, Monica hadn’t been helping with her recovery at all but enabling her descent into addiction. Instead of steering her away from the prescription drugs and alcohol she was fast becoming dependent upon, she’d been gently guiding her ever closer towards them. Just like Robert, it had been a slow and insidious process, so covert that she’d not noticed it was happening. But now, now that she could remember… now it all made some kind of diabolical sense, a hideous, ugly jigsaw that fitted together. Monica had given her Valium to put her to sleep that night so that she could pretend to be Laurie: frame her for Claire’s murder.
But why on earth would she do that? Why would her best friend of almost two decades want to frame her for something she didn’t do?
Monica had told her that she had seen her arguing with Robert on the night of his death. But what if she hadn’t really? What if she was trying to get her to believe that she was the killer, when really it had been Monica herself? Why had she provided her with an alibi? During Laurie’s interview, the detectives had accused her of trying to outsmart them by keeping Robert’s body warm to make the time of death look later than it actually was; they said that he was most likely killed around 1 p.m., just before she left for the hairdressers. Had Monica done this deliberately in some kind of calculated double bluff?
An assault course of questions hijack Laurie’s brain until it’s a spaghetti junction of unanswered whys. No. It wasn’t possible, was it? Monica was like a sister, the closest she’s ever been to another human being on the planet, her own mother included. Monica had been there her entire life, practically. She’d been her rock and her confidante, caring for her like family in the absence of her own.
Monica had introduced her to Robert when they were just eighteen years old. Robert was a friend of the family’s, she’d said. I think you’re going to love him. And she had been right, because Monica was always right. She had been there, stoic and solid, since she could remember. She’d been there on her wedding day; she’d been there as a shoulder to cry on throughout her toxic marriage to Robert. She’d been there before the accident and after it too, weeping at the grave
s of her unborn babies, holding her up as their tiny caskets disappeared behind the velvet curtain…
She thought about how strong Monica was as a person. How well she had coped when poor Dougie had passed away so suddenly. Good and bad, ups and down, highs and lows. They had shared them all, like sisters do and… Oh God! Dougie. It hits Laurie like an out-of-control freight train and she feels the force of the sudden realisation crushing her chest and restricting her breathing.
‘Please!’ She begins to bang on the cell door again, as hard as she can this time. ‘Pleeeeease, someone! I need to speak to Detective Riley.’
Sixty
We are too late.
Leanna George is being stretchered out of her apartment as we arrive. She is screaming out in agony. ‘The pain… God help me the pain!’ She looks like she’s drifting in and out of consciousness as the paramedics attempt to get an IV into her. I run up to the stretcher.
‘Leanna, Leanna! What happened? Tell me, what happened?’
‘Looks like she’s swallowed something,’ the paramedic informs me. ‘Probably some kind of acid.’ He gives me a look that suggests it’s not looking great for Leanna George, though you don’t need to have gone through the training to work that one out, judging by the poor girl’s moans and cries of agony.
‘Goddamn it! Leanna!’ I’m shouting now, my emotions getting the better of me. Her pretty eyes stare up blankly at me and I see the pain in them. ‘Tell me, Leanna,’ I say. ‘Tell me who did this to you.’
Davis is holding my arm, horror plastered all over her face. Leanna is gurgling, making a horrendous, inhuman rasping noise that can only be described as the onset of an impending, agonising death as her vital organs burn inside her.
‘Tell me, Leanna!’ My voice is a high-pitched plea. ‘Tell me, darling, who did this to you?’ I look down at her, at the vibrant, ambitious woman who Davis and I had spoken to just a few days ago. A woman who’d fallen foul to the likes of Robert Mills and who had changed her life for what she believed would be the love of hers.
The Couple on Cedar Close Page 26