The murder quadrille, p.24
The Murder Quadrille, page 24
Martin! It was all Sarah could do to stop herself laughing aloud. How could she explain that one away? “Well, sister, my husband currently thinks he murdered me and buried me under the patio, so probably best not”?
‘Thank you.’ Sarah shook her head. ‘I prefer to be alone.’
The hospital management had ways of dealing with grief. They set you forms to fill and gave you a handful of “important” leaflets to read. One of these was for grief counselling, but Sarah could not imagine going to some total stranger and trying to explain her terrible loss.
Breaking the rules and using her mobile, she phoned her sister in Sydney to deliver the bad news. Suzanne burst into loud sobs.
Sarah marvelled. How did her sister manage to do this to order? For Sarah crying now would be impossible. What she felt, sitting in this dismal room was another emotion altogether, with an altogether different physiology. At first she was numb. Then another sensation took over, rather as though she had been kicked in the stomach and winded, and that she was having to struggle to keep breathing. There were no tears, though somewhere, deep inside, a dark quivering feeling like fury rumbled.
When, an hour later, the form filling was complete and she had contacted the funeral directors, Sarah was informed by a hard-faced nurse, wearing the usual sympathetic mask, that she would have to leave smartish, as they needed the bed her mother was “occupying”, and the porters were already here to take “the body” down to the morgue.
Exhausted and stunned, Sarah said one last goodbye and made for the lift.
Once inside she leaned back against the shiny aluminium wall, gazing up at the numbers above the doors lighting up as the lift plunged downwards.
She felt dizzy, almost drunk from the events of the last week.
The lift stopped at 3.
The doors opened and closed.
‘Are you feeling all right?’
A nurse had come in and was looking hard at Sarah.
‘It’s just that you look rather pale.’
‘I’m very tired.’
‘Understandably.’ The nurse gave her a sympathetic look. ‘Did you report him in the end? Fosco, wasn’t it?’
Sarah looked at the nurse blankly. What on earth was she talking about? Count Fosco? The Woman in White?
‘You’d better get home, I think.’ The nurse spoke guardedly. ‘And take it easy.’
Well of course that was what she was going to do! What did the woman expect her to do when her mother had just died—spend the night line-dancing?
‘Take care. Don’t let anyone bang into you, will you?’ the nurse called as Sarah walked out of the lift into the bustling hospital entrance hall. Then she remembered that the nurse was the same one who had attended her in the emergency cubicle after Martin had stabbed her, and who had tenderly cleaned the mud and blood from her skin, before applying a dressing to her wound.
Sarah hesitated, wondering whether to go back and thank the nurse, explain about her mother and why she had been confused.
But she realised, too, that that could only lead to mischief, so instead she made hastily for the exit, desperate to get home and lie down.
Home?
Where was home exactly?
Could she really count the house in Clapham which she had once shared with Martin? Or had she relinquished ownership when she walked out on him? Although the desertion hadn’t taken quite the course she had originally intended.
No she couldn’t go there.
Actually—Sarah owned half of the damned house, didn’t she? She had paid the mortgage, just as he had. Really, as Sarah perceived it, Martin was in no position to take umbrage if she walked back into the front door and presented herself as a living breathing wife, sans mud and bin-liners. If anything, he ought to be utterly delighted to find that he was not in fact a murderer.
Plus there was her current cash situation. Sarah had used up all of her cash now, first on travelling to the Riviera, then on the un-slept in hotel room. Also she owed the credit card for the exceedingly expensive flight home, and the taxi ride to the hospital.
There was no question of trudging round in the gloaming searching for a cheap dingy hotel in which to spend the grim week preparing for her mother’s funeral. Sarah knew she couldn’t cope with that, either financially or emotionally.
Sarah made her way to the nearest stop and took the bus home.
The light was fading as she alighted at the stop beside the Common. Darkness loomed along the avenues of trees, while flicks of colour danced like windblown confetti in the black water of the rippling paddling pool.
To be sure of some comfort food, Sarah walked briskly through the small mini-market on the corner and bought herself a pint of milk and some tea, with a packet of biscuits and some chocolate, plus a loaf for the morning toast.
When she reached the front door of her home, as she took the key from her pocket she thought again.
Perhaps this was a really bad idea. She felt weak and vulnerable and couldn’t cope with an emotional scene.
But all the lights were out, so it did look as though Martin wasn’t home.
Quietly she turned the key in the door.
She stepped inside, and flicked the light in the hall. The bulb had gone.
She was momentarily shocked by the murky emptiness of the place, then remembered that she herself had paid the removal men to take out all the valuables and electronics.
She stood and listened. It didn’t sound as though there was anyone in.
Somehow the darkness seemed appropriate for her current sadness, the numbness and that tumbling feeling in her gut.
She did not want to give Martin, if he was in, warning of her arrival. So, without turning on any other lights, Sarah quietly dropped the shopping in the kitchen and made her way straight up the stairs.
She was relieved to find the bedroom was empty.
The only things the removal people had taken from the bedroom were the clock radio, and a small TV but it too seemed oddly bare.
With a sigh Sarah flopped down onto the bed and kicked off her shoes.
How petty and ludicrous her row with Martin seemed now, under the lowering shadow of her mother’s death.
She shut her eyes, longing for sleep to dull the pain—physical and mental.
Through the wall she could hear voices coming from the next door flat.
A woman and a man, murmuring.
In fact she supposed they were probably talking perfectly loudly, but the muffling effect of the cavity wall insulated the sound and made it seem as though they were only whispering.
Tess must have a visitor.
Sarah turned over. She yearned for true silence, but wondered whether such a state was possible. Wasn’t that what John Cage had tried to show in his 4 minutes 33 seconds for silent piano? Even “silence” always consisted of a medley of sounds. No such thing as silence.
Not for the living, at any rate.
Ironically, now that she was away from the hospital and all the nurses with their phoney empathy, the physical pain of the stab wound in her side had returned with a vengeance. On the plane and in the hospital she had been quite unaware of it.
She rolled over in the other direction, taking the pressure off her side, and reached down into her bag to get a pain-killer.
Again she was filled with outrage that, after she had been stabbed, Martin had done nothing to help her or to get medical assistance. The little spineless bastard. She hoped he would be sorry when he saw what he had done to her.
Sarah shut her eyes and tried to relax.
The conversation next door seemed to have stopped. Sarah wondered whether she should phone Tess now to ask her what had been going on in her absence, but considered that perhaps things next door had gone silent because Tess and whoever the bloke was were kissing, or something equally embarrassing to interrupt with an unexpected phone call.
She closed her eyes.
What was it the Beatles had sung? “Lay down all thought, surrender to the void”?
But the fleeting silence was filled with yet another annoying noise. It sounded like a kind of metallic scraping but had a regular rhythm behind it. It seemed to be coming from the back garden.
Hauling herself up from the bed Sarah made her way to the window and looked out.
There was someone out there in the dark, in her back garden, digging.
And it was not Martin. Far too fat for him.
In the gloaming Sarah could not make out the man’s features but from the shape of his rear end it looked a lot like Max Latham!
She stepped to the side, watching him through the net curtain.
The man certainly had been hard at it. He had turned over nearly all of the flower beds.
What on earth was going on?
Was he looking for her body?
Had Martin confessed to Max, his lawyer, and sent him to find her and then to dispose of her corpse?
How very rum!
Sarah pondered. Should she let him carry on digging right through to Australia in his quest to find her? Or simply walk out into the garden and go “Boo!”?
Max stood up, rubbed the base of his spine and wiped the sweat from his face.
Sarah heard him curse.
She dropped the curtain as he looked up. She felt sure that momentarily they caught eyes. She ducked back behind the window frame.
Where was Martin, anyhow, that he’d just sent Max here like this? Had Martin been here earlier to let him in, or did Max have his own key?
With one eye to the edge of the window she now watched as Max flung down the spade and walked speedily towards the house. He was looking up at the window, heading towards her.
Sarah moved back towards the centre of the bedroom.
The game was up.
She sat on the end of the bed, facing the door, waiting for the trudge of Max’s footfall on the stairs, ready to face the music.
But instead she heard Max’s footsteps hurry across the kitchen, then shuffle briskly along the hall.
Then the front door slammed.
She crept to the front window and looked down.
Max trotted swiftly across the road, and brushing his suit down with both hands. Looking almost panicked, he pulled his car keys from his pocket and dropped them on the pavement, with a jangle. He stooped, again rubbing the small of his back, and quickly snatched the keys from the gutter. After clambering into his car and starting the engine, Max looked up at the front of the house.
Sarah ducked back behind the curtain.
She heard the car drive off at speed.
How mysterious!
Sarah dialled Martin’s mobile number, ready to have it out with him.
It switched straight to machine.
Sarah looked at her watch. Much too late to phone the office. No one would be there. Certainly those two lazy slime-balls would be down at the pub by now, knocking back the tequila or Pimms, or whatever it was they deemed to be the “in” drink.
Too late also to try Max’s office. She knew he had a very efficient woman who worked for him, but by this time surely she too would have packed up and gone home.
Despite the silence, Sarah was again tempted to phone next door and ask Tess what she had heard from Martin over the last few days, and also whether she had noticed how often Max had been here. She knew she certainly wasn’t going to be able to sleep until she had a few answers, in particular would the big greasy pompous porpoise be coming back here later tonight?
She had to phone Tess. And if Tess picked up, Sarah would suggest nipping round. If not she would have to leave it till morning.
Sarah went downstairs and found the desk diary, and out fell another of Tess’s ubiquitous business cards. That woman handed these things out right left and centre.
She stood by the phone and dialled.
While she stood there listening to the phone ringing out—with the ever so faint echo coming through the wall from next door, Sarah studied the card.
The other phone numbers on the card were mobile numbers. Fancy having two mobiles! But when Sarah looked at them it made sense. One number was local, the other Tess’s American ‘cell’, as they called them.
Sarah looked hard at the cell number. Wasn’t that the same one that had come up on her own phone attached to the weird text message?
Sarah ran upstairs to get her mobile from her handbag.
Just then she heard the clatter of footsteps going down the stairs from Tess’s flat.
She looked out of the window and waited.
She heard the door open.
If it was Tess, Sarah decided she would open the window and call out, invite her in for a quick drink.
But it was not her at all.
It was Lisa.
Max’s Lisa!
Sarah watched as the half-witted girl looked across the road. When she realised that Max’s car had gone, Lisa threw her arms up in a dramatic gesture, then stood for a while with her hands on her hips, dramatically shaking her head. You could almost hear the gears grinding in the poor girl’s brain.
Although she felt rather sorry for her, Sarah decided against asking Lisa in. She couldn’t face all the explaining—why the house was stripped of the TV etc, where she had been, why she had come back—her heart thumped—the death of her mother.
She took a deep breath and perched on the window sill.
What a mess.
She wished Martin would come home.
Where was he?
What was going on?
Even though she might well get some answers from Lisa, Tess would be much easier to deal with, and not be a direct conduit of information to that ghastly Max Latham.
While still watching the street, Sarah pulled out her mobile phone and switched to the text message.
At the same moment Lisa stepped back onto the pavement and caught her heel in the drain cover.
Sarah heard the crack. She also heard Lisa curse.
The stiletto heel lay jammed in the grate.
Lisa screwed the heelless shoe back onto her foot. After yanking the heel from the gutter she limped along, all the while stabbing at her mobile phone.
The sharp tone of Lisa’s whining echoed along the street. Sarah could imagine the earful Max was getting.
She returned to inspect her own phone and scrolled through the recently received texts: “IN GRAVE DANGER. GIVE POLICE THIS CELL NUMBER. FIND ME.” Sarah held the card next to the phone and compared the number, digit by digit.
It was the one.
The text had come from Tess’s US cell-phone.
Tess? Why?
She scrolled down to the next text: “HELP HELP HELP TEXT ONLY.”
How bizarre.
What was all this about? Some outlandish method of getting a story moving, perhaps?
Sarah would certainly need to follow this up.
Or might Tess be playing some mad game with her, perhaps on behalf of Martin?
She could still hear someone moving around next door. She presumed this would be Tess herself. No need to text or phone. She would simply arrive at the door, present the text message and demand an explanation.
Sarah saw Lisa, still limping along, slip her phone into her pocket. Instantly it rang and Lisa answered.
Simultaneously Sarah noticed, further back along the road, a car pull out, heading in the same direction that Lisa was walking. The car was travelling unusually slowly. A kerb crawler?
Although it might seem mad, to Sarah it appeared that the car was tailing Lisa, who, at the same moment put her mobile back into her pocket and glanced back.
She had almost reached the end of the street.
At the same moment the car shot forward, and sped a few hundred yards past Lisa. Then suddenly the driver slammed on the brakes and the car reversed in her direction.
Sarah watched the dumb-show.
Lisa threw her hands into the air and shouted at the driver. She was too far away now for Sarah to be able to hear exactly what was being said.
Lisa took a step forward off the kerb.
A hand shot out of the driver’s window, grabbing Lisa by the wrist.
Lisa violently shook her head and pulled her hand away.
Sarah didn’t like what she was seeing. Lisa might be a half-wit but she was being harassed by someone with a lot more strength than her.
Sarah grabbed her shoes. She would stop this, scare away the man in the car, then ask Lisa if she needed any help, before calling on Tess.
Shoes in her hand, Sarah ran down stairs and out into the street.
But by the time she reached the pavement, both the car and Lisa were gone.
LINDY-HOP—improvised American dance featuring elements of jazz, Charleston, tap, swingout and breakaway.
Tess had been debating for hours whether or not to drink from the bottle of water. It was a 2 litre pale plastic bottle with a shop label announcing it to be Scottish Mineral Water, and seemed authentic. But what if it was something else? Piss for example.
Or perhaps it really was bona fide water but they had put a few tabs of a date rape drug into it.
Tess knew all about date rape drugs—GHB, roofies, halcyon, special K and the rest. She’d used them, in a fictional way naturally, in her books. And the research she had done meant she knew all there was to know about all the effects of the Benzodiazepines. They’d knock her out. First she’d lose the control of her muscles, then pass out. When she was unconscious, it would be exactly as though she was under anaesthetic, after all that’s what most of these drugs were actually intended for—knocking people out for an operation, or as a pre-med. Special K was an anaesthetic for animals, for fuck’s sake. If there was anything like that in the water, while she was out cold anybody could do whatever they liked with her apparently lifeless body, and she’d know nothing about it.
Afterwards she’d suffer anterograde amnesia, meaning she wouldn’t remember anything that had happened while she was under. But Tess supposed not being able to remember something wouldn’t be such a problem if you became dead before you were revived.
Holy shit, at this rate she’d die of dehydration before they came back to rape and kill her.
