The Couple on Cedar Close

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘Was it a woman? Who was it? Please, Leanna, don’t die on me… You’re strong, Leanna, strong. You’ll get through this… it’ll be okay. Tell me – tell me their name.’

  I can see she’s attempting to speak. I can see her Adam’s apple moving furiously inside of her throat as she struggles to breathe through the searing agony that is tearing through her insides, shutting down her vital organs, killing her slowly. I think I might be crying because my vision is suddenly blurry.

  ‘I will get whoever did this to you, Leanna. God help me, I swear I will find them and I will make sure they rot behind the door til their miserable death.’

  I can see her slipping away in front of my eyes; her petite body writhing and twisting on the stretcher, even as they begin to pump it full of morphine. She’s dying like an animal, a torturous, agonising, undignified and most of all unnecessary death.

  I turn to Davis. ‘Get Woods on the phone. We need to secure the borders. I won’t let that bitch leave this country. Send out descriptions and photos of Monica Lewis. We need to find her before she gets on a plane and disappears. Do it, Davis – do it now.’ But she’s already on the phone before I can finish.

  I look down at Leanna. She’s still writhing on the stretcher, her body twitching; her pretty face is deathly pale, eyes bulging from their sockets as she stares back at me.

  ‘It was her, wasn’t it, Leanna? She did this to you.’

  Suddenly she seizes my hand, almost like an involuntary spasm, grasping at me with claw-like fingers. ‘K… K… K… Ki… Ki…’ she says before finally, mercifully, passing out.

  Sixty-One

  Monica is perusing a selection of make-up at the Clarins counter in duty-free under the attentive eye of the commission-based, over-made-up sales assistant.

  She can’t remember the name of the foundation she usually uses. Is it the wheat or the honey wheat? She pumps a little of each onto the back of her hand and rubs it in. The wheat. Yes, definitely. The honey is too yellow for her complexion. She’s more of a red tone. Or so the assistant observes, looking at her like she’s a rare work of art.

  Monica purchases the make-up, plus some of her favourite Coco Mademoiselle perfume, after liberally spraying herself with the tester. It reminds her of Robert. He’d loved it and had bought her a bottle of it ever since she could remember, for birthdays and Christmases mostly, but sometimes just because he wanted to.

  Taking her purchases, she heads through the departure lounge and into the women’s toilets. It’s busy of course; it’s an airport. Usually, so many bodies in a small space would irritate her but today she is glad of the sweaty, hassled-looking strangers and their ugly luggage.

  Locking herself in a cubicle, she opens her flight case and takes a small mirror out of a washbag, placing it on top of the cistern. Securing her hair back, she fixes the wig onto her head before tying a headscarf around it. Quickly she changes out of her jeans and blouse. There’s no room for them in the carry case so she stuffs them into the sanitary bin. Shame really. The blouse was Zadig et Voltaire and cost a small fortune. Never mind, she consoles herself – plenty more of that in Cannes.

  Slipping into a plain white shift dress, she struggles a little with the zip, eventually pulling it all the way to the top, just as he had done for her all those years ago for the first time.

  Monica checks her reflection in the small mirror and adjusts her headscarf; it makes her look Parisian, like Audrey Hepburn, not least when she puts her dark, cat’s-eye Chanel sunglasses on as a final touch. No one will recognise her. No one is looking for her. She doubts anyone will discover Leanna George for a while. Days, maybe even weeks perhaps. By then she will be a putrefying corpse, with only those tits and teeth left.

  She is smiling to herself as she exits the cubicle.

  Sixty-Two

  ‘She won’t be here. I know it,’ I say as I ring the bell, conscious I am being watched by pairs of eyes from neighbouring houses.

  Davis raises an eyebrow. ‘I thought we were all just transmitters, Gov, and that whatever we think, we—’

  ‘I’d ask you to boot the door in yourself, Davis, but I figure maybe not in your, well, in your condition.’

  ‘False alarm, boss,’ she says without missing a heartbeat. And I think she probably sees the relief on my face because she grins at me and does that thing where she cocks her head to one side. ‘Besides, it’s still open from the last time we did a Bruce Lee on it.’

  I peer through the letter box.

  ‘Monica? Monica Lewis? It’s Detective Riley. Dan Riley. I need to speak with you urgently…’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Davis says, turning on her heels and holding her head. ‘Do you think we’ve really lost her?’

  I stop for a moment. Try to think. Think what Monica Lewis would do. Where she would go. She believes she isn’t under any suspicion; she doesn’t think anyone is looking at her. This is a good thing. It means she won’t be too heavily on her guard, might even make a reappearance of her own volition.

  ‘You think she’s done a bunk, boss? It didn’t look like she’s taken much if she has.’

  ‘Does a psychopath need much?’ I reply, tapping my lip with my finger, despite how much it irritates me when other people do it. I was right. It doesn’t help you think any clearer at all.

  ‘If Monica doesn’t think we’re looking at her as our girl then she’s bound to come back home, isn’t she? Makes sense, doesn’t it? She’s not going to put heat on herself.’

  ‘Nothing makes sense to a psychopath, Davis,’ I lament. ‘I don’t think Leanna George was part of the original plan. She’s taken a chance. The others… the others she could try to pin on Laurie, but not Leanna. Laurie is in custody. Not even Delaney can argue with that alibi.’

  Davis turns away at the mention of his name.

  ‘We’ve both made mistakes, Davis,’ I say. ‘We’ve both been looking in the wrong places the whole time. Sometimes the truth is so close that you can’t see it staring you in the face. But I can see clearly now.’

  ‘You’re not going to start singing are you?’ She smiles and strangely I feel like hugging her.

  ‘Leanna George was an afterthought. Not part of the plan. She was impulsive. So, where would you head if you’d just spontaneously attempted to murder someone?’

  Davis makes to speak but I cut her off when I see an old lady standing in the doorway of the house next door. She looks like she’s watching us.

  Davis waves her hand, dismissively. ‘The blind lady, Mrs Foster. She won’t have seen anything, obviously.’

  I go over there anyway. I think I see Davis’s eyes rolling as she reluctantly follows me.

  ‘Mrs Foster?’ I say, walking up to her front door. ‘I’m Detective Riley, Dan Riley, and this is—’

  ‘DS Davis,’ the old woman finishes my sentence and I detect a strange twang to her voice. ‘I’ve been expecting you. You’ll have to speak very slowly,’ she says, pulling the door open and gesturing for us to come through.

  Sixty-Three

  ‘Can I get you tea? Coffee? I’m having a brandy. I need one.’ The old lady speaks in odd, muted, clipped tones.

  ‘We haven’t got much time, Mrs Foster,’ I say, harried. ‘We need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Slowly. Please,’ she repeats herself. ‘And it’s Miss.’

  I glance at Davis, prompting her to speak. ‘We’d like to talk to you about—’

  ‘The murder, yes,’ she cuts Davis off mid-sentence. ‘That sonofabitch from over the road. Good riddance to bad rubbish if you ask me.’

  I look at her properly. I can’t gauge her age. Late seventies, perhaps early eighties. She’s thin and her skin is papery, yet I detect a strength in her that defies her years.

  ‘I used to be a dancer,’ she says, as though reading my thoughts. Women seem quite adept at doing this, whatever their age. ‘A long time ago now though… Ballet,’ she continues, melancholy heavy in her strange voice. ‘I travelled the world, Det
ective. We were all young and beautiful once upon a time.’ She sips her brandy regally. Savours it. ‘She trod on my foot you know.’

  ‘Who did?’ My eyes scan the room quickly, taking the contents in. It’s clean and neat but very old-fashioned, as you might expect. I spot some old black-and-white photographs on an upright piano of a stunningly beautiful young woman wearing a leotard and tutu, striking a dance pose with an equally fit young man with slicked-back hair. For some reason I think of Rachel, and I have a vision of us in our dotage together, old and infirm, looking back at photographs and memories of times when we were in our prime. Look at how we were, darling. I wonder what Rach would have looked like as an old woman. I know she would still have been beautiful, at least to me anyway.

  Perhaps the old lady senses my own melancholy because she says, ‘When you get to my age, all you really have left are memories.’ She glances at the photograph and gives a wan smile. ‘Love is a strange thing, isn’t it, Detective?’

  ‘Yes… it is.’ I nod and smile, caught up in the moment with her.

  ‘That poor girl, Laurie, isn’t it? The wife. You have her in custody, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Have you seen Monica Lewis? The lady who lives next door. Have you seen her today?’

  The old lady smiles then. And Davis looks at me, mouthing the words, ‘She’s blind, Gov!’

  ‘Terrible thing, getting old,’ she says. ‘You’ll have to speak slower, Detective. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.’

  ‘Of course.’ I nod apologetically and try, for a second or two, to imagine what her life must be like. Old, alone, blind. Left with only faded memories of a glorious yesteryear.

  ‘Ms Lewis, your neighbour—’

  ‘Ah… the Lewis woman. Oh yes. Are you sure you can’t join me in a drink?’

  Davis is almost dancing on the spot she’s so agitated.

  ‘Why not,’ I say, nodding harshly at Davis and silently mouthing, ‘It’s my birthday.’

  The old lady moves slowly to the drinks cabinet situated to the back of the dated room; every step appears laboured, and Davis and I watch her as she pours us both a small brandy in cut-crystal tumblers with papery, blue-veined hands. I notice her nails are clean and neat and buffed to perfection, and for some reason this makes me feel sad.

  ‘Laurie trod on my foot, the day of the barbecue. Poor thing. She apologised profusely. As women like her always do.’

  ‘Women like her?’ Davis interjects gently, taking the smallest sip of her drink and toasting me silently, mouthing, ‘Happy Birthday, Gov.’

  ‘Abused women, always the first to say sorry. Oh, and Happy Birthday, Detective.’

  I shoot Davis a confused look. Perhaps the woman has psychic powers. They say that when you lose one of your primary senses, such as sight, that the others become even more heightened as a result.

  ‘Anyway’ – Miss Foster takes another sip of her drink – ‘Monica. Not so much a friend as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I saw what she did.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Slower, please. It’s difficult for me to keep up.’

  I shake my head. Roll my eyes at Davis. ‘Miss Foster, we don’t have much time.’ I speak slowly. ‘Monica Lewis. You said you saw what she did?’

  The old lady looks in no hurry to accommodate us. ‘Yes. I saw her today, and the day before. Getting into Laurie’s car.’

  I almost choke on my drink. ‘Getting into Laurie Mills’ car?’

  ‘Yes. Dressed as her. Slower, please, Detective, slower. She flipped me the middle finger. Terribly rude.’

  I glance sideways at Davis. ‘Flipped you the finger?’

  ‘You know…’ She demonstrates. ‘I’d have thought your profession would be the first to know what that meant. Anyway. She took her car. I saw Laurie at the window, poor little wretch. I think she may have seen me too. Anyway. I often saw her – Laurie, that is. I saw her on the day he was murdered. You know, the husband.’ She sips the last of her brandy and pours another. It’s Courvoisier, the good stuff. ‘I saw what was going on. I saw Monica get into her car dressed as her, all very strange. But then again, life is, isn’t it, Detective?’

  I stare at her confused, holding the glass in my hand. She keeps saying the word saw. ‘You saw? But… but I thought you were blind, Miss Foster?’

  She laughs then, a funny sound, almost ugly. ‘Oh, I’m not blind, Detective… I’m deaf. Have been since 1997, not long after I moved here. But blind? No, no. No, no. Whoever told you that?’

  I look at Davis and she looks back with wide eyes, shrugs.

  ‘But… but I thought – we thought—’

  ‘Well you thought wrong, dear! I see everything. People have made the mistake of thinking I’m blind because of the dark glasses and the fact I walk with a stick. It’s rather good fun really. I let people believe what they like. When people think you’re blind they invariably show you much more of themselves. Anyway, I saw him too, Robert Mills. The day he was murdered.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  This conversation is almost becoming a comedy sketch.

  ‘Yes!’ the old lady says. ‘I just told you, I saw him go into his house, about 1ish. Then I watched as she followed around ten minutes later.’

  ‘As who followed? Laurie?’

  ‘No!’ She looks slightly agitated now. ‘Monica Lewis. She went into the house after him at around 1.15 p.m. I knew it was 1.15 p.m. because I was expecting a parcel to be delivered and kept checking my watch.

  ‘Did you see her come out again. Did you see Monica leaving the house?’

  She finishes her brandy, delicately replacing the glass next to the crystal decanter.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Detective. I take an afternoon nap around 2 p.m. every day, just half an hour to recharge my old batteries. I was asleep on the chaise longue in the conservatory. I did, however, see Laurie coming home around 3 p.m. Monica must’ve left before that because I saw her pop back over for half an hour or so before Laurie left again. I saw her coming back around 4.30 p.m. – from the shops I think. She was carrying what looked like heavy bags, struggling with them, I thought. Well, she’s a tiny thing isn’t she? She has a car but never uses it. I’ve only ever seen her drive with that Monica woman next to her. Not really a surprise when you think about it, is it? After such a tragic accident…’ she says, her odd voice trailing off. ‘Tragedy, it happens to us all at some point in our lives.’ She looks at me knowingly, as though she can sense I’ve had my share of it too.

  I’m dumbfounded. All along there had been a witness, an eyewitness to Monica Lewis following Robert Mills into his house. How had we missed it? Someone’s head is for the chopping block. And I have a feeling it could be my own.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us, Miss Foster?’ Davis asks gently. ‘Why didn’t you come forward and tell us what you’d seen?’

  The old woman smiles at her politely and pours herself another small brandy.

  ‘Because, my dear,’ she says, bringing the glass to her thin lips, ‘no one asked me.’

  Sixty-Four

  Delaney is pacing as Davis and I charge into the incident room.

  ‘Where have you two been? Laurie Mills has been banging the door down asking for you.’

  ‘Have you released her yet?’

  ‘Released her? What for?’

  I turn round, head for the door.

  ‘Gov? Look, is someone going to tell me what the fuck’s going on here? You two have been God knows where, doing God knows what this morning while I’m stuck here waiting on your instructions with a serial killer who will only talk to you calling the shots. I’m supposed to be your number two on this, Gov, not her.’ He points, casting Davis a derogatory look. ‘Just tell me what’s going on!’

  ‘She’s not our killer, Martin. Laurie Mills is not our woman. She never was.’

  ‘So if she’s not our killer, despite all the forensic evidence and practically an admission of guilt, then who the hell is?’

  ‘Moni
ca Lewis is,’ I say, ‘or should I say Monica Mills.’

  Delaney opens his hands, brow furrowed in confusion. ‘The neighbour? And you know this how?’

  ‘Eyewitness from next door saw her going into the Millses’ place ten minutes after Robert arrived at the address on the day of his murder. She also saw her getting into Laurie’s car the night of the Wright murder dressed as Laurie, wearing her clothes and a wig. Monica Mills planted DNA at the scene and convinced Laurie she’d blacked out and murdered Robert. On the CCTV from Claire’s apartment, you can see a lizard tattoo on the murderer’s right foot. Laurie doesn’t have any tattoos but Monica Mills does – incidentally, on her right foot. And just a few hours ago she attempted to murder Leanna George by getting her to drink sulphuric acid. Now I think she’s on the run. And we need to find her. Fast. I need to talk to Laurie.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s been screaming for you all bloody morning, banging on the door until her fists started bleeding. Complete nutter.’

  ‘Let’s go, Davis.’ I turn to Delaney over my shoulder. ‘Oh, and Martin. I’ll tell you how else I knew Laurie Mills wasn’t our girl…’

  He stares at me with a defeated look on his face.

  ‘Intuition,’ I say as the door swings shut behind me.

  Sixty-Five

  ‘Oh God, thank God!’ Relief floods through Laurie’s nervous system like a burst river as the detective opens the door of her cell. It takes all the strength she has left in her emaciated body to stand. She feels weak but knows she has to find the strength from somewhere.

  ‘Detective Riley.’ Her voice is laced with panic. ‘I need to speak to you. It’s about Monica…my friend – the one who lives opposite my house. The one who gave me an alibi, remember?’ She doesn’t give him a chance to answer. ‘Well, I’ve remembered something from the nights of Robert’s and Claire’s murders… Oh God… I… Monica, I think she killed them; I think she murdered Robert and Claire and then tried to frame me.’