How to slay at work, p.12
How to Slay at Work, page 12
I’m sitting at the next table, dressed in a simple black suit and cream blouse, my laptop in front of me along with a large glass of red wine. I occasionally tap the keys and sigh gently. Just another overburdened executive working late into the night on a business trip. I order another glass of wine from the waitress as she passes, affecting a French accent behind my apparently terrible German.
Katerina and her date talk about a range of topics; music and theatre and the places they would like to travel. She doesn’t mention her husband or children.
Lawrence is outside the bar, watching his wife and this attractive man from the street. I don’t know what his plan is. Is he going to come in, ‘bump’ into her as if by accident? I should probably excuse myself, find a less obvious spot if he’s going to make a scene.
Katerina touches her date’s hand and then tells him she is going to the ladies’ room.
I decide to take the moment to make my getaway, so I fold away my laptop and slide it into my handbag, before standing and picking up my refreshed wine glass.
‘Mademoiselle?’ Katerina’s date says.
‘Oui?’ I reply, praying he doesn’t want to start a conversation in French.
‘English?’
I nod.
‘You are here on business?’
I nod again.
‘If you would prefer not to drink alone…’ he says and places a card on my table, sliding it a few inches until it’s directly in front of me.
‘Merci,’ I whisper as I pick it up and slip it into my jacket pocket. I offer him a shy smile and he returns it with a wink.
Well, well, well. So the handsome stranger is an escort.
Just as I’m walking away, Katerina returns. And then all hell breaks loose.
‘You bitch!’ Lawrence runs towards her. He’s obviously decided not to skulk around outside any longer.
‘Lawrence… I…’ she starts.
‘Shut it, whore!’ He spits the word in her face. It sounds even more vicious in German.
I melt away, heading towards the foyer of the hotel, but staying within ear shot, thankful to the overly conscientious young Freya who paid attention in her German classes at university.
‘Don’t speak to the lady like that,’ the escort says.
‘She isn’t a fucking lady. She’s a lying, cheating bitch.’
‘And you are?’ The escort is taller than Lawrence, broader, in better shape.
But Lawrence is fired up with the indignant rage of a man scorned. ‘I’m her husband.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yeah. Oh!’ Lawrence shouts, jabbing a finger towards the escort. ‘You’re fucking my wife.’
‘No.’ He takes hold of the jabbing finger and pushes it away gently. ‘I’m having a civilised drink with a friend.’
‘Oh, a civilised drink, is it? Do you think I’m blind?’ He whirls around to face Katerina. ‘Do you think I’m a fool? I know exactly what you’re up to. I can’t believe this.’
‘I think we should all calm down and take a little breather,’ the escort says.
‘Oh, do you?’ Lawrence’s voice has risen almost an entire octave and every single person in the bar has now stopped to watch the argument. ‘You think you can tell me what to do? You think you can fuck my wife and then boss me around. Just who the actual fuck do you think you are?’ He shoves the escort in the chest.
‘Lawrence!’ Katerina finally speaks up. ‘Stop it.’
‘I’m not letting him get away with this.’ Lawrence says, giving the escort another shove. ‘He isn’t going to get away with stealing my wife.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake. He isn’t stealing me. I’m paying him.’
There is a collective sucked intake of breath as her words sink in with the listening patrons.
‘Yes.’ She doubles down on her confession. ‘This man is an escort.’
‘You’re…?’ Lawrence curls his lip in disgust as he looks at his wife.
‘Oh, knock it off, sweetheart. Like you haven’t paid for it a dozen times in the last year alone.’
‘That’s different.’ Lawrence sounds genuinely aggrieved. Like he really believes in his ridiculous double standard that it’s OK for a man to pay for sex but it’s something horrifying for a woman to do.
‘I suggest you go home,’ Katerina tells Lawrence. Then she reaches for the escort’s hand and pulls him towards the foyer where I’m still standing, watching them. I move out of the way as they pass.
One of the hotel security guys nods at the escort. He’s obviously known to the hotel and they don’t bat an eyelid. All part of the service.
I move further to the side and use the cover of a pillar to peer back towards Lawrence.
He’s standing with his mouth hanging open, staring at the retreating back of his wife as she goes off to fuck some guy she’s paid for. I really hope she used their joint account.
But then I do something entirely unprecedented. My feet are walking on their own. And then I’m in front of him. There isn’t even a hint of recognition on his face. He has no idea what has happened to Jim and Kai and the others. No inkling I’m anyone other than a woman in a hotel bar in Munich.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask in English, maintaining the subtle French accent I used earlier.
‘I… I…’ he starts but his mouth is unable to form the words.
‘Let’s go to the bar next door, OK?’ I touch his elbow.
He nods dumbly and lets me lead him outside.
18
Lawrence remains silent as I steer him into the bar next door. It’s been decorated to look a bit of a dive, all dim-lighting and shabby furniture, but the patrons are mainly in their thirties and forties, middle management blowing off steam after a day in the office. At least it’s busy and the music’s loud. No one will give us a second look in here. At the bar, I order two beers and two shots.
‘I can’t believe her,’ Lawrence says, sliding onto a bar stool. ‘I mean, he’s a stranger.’
‘Perhaps that’s the point,’ I reply, pushing a shot of Jägermeister towards him.
‘But… a gigolo?’ he wails and then necks the drink, slamming the little glass down on the bar once he’s done.
I stifle my laughter at his use of the word. It sounds so old fashioned. So odd. I motion to the bartender to get us another round of Jägermeisters.
‘Why?’ he asks in a slightly more normal voice.
‘Why?’ I reply, not sure what question he’s actually asking.
‘Why is she cheating? Why is she using an escort? Why is she paying someone?’
‘Do you really want me to answer?’ I take a sip of my beer.
‘You think it’s because I’m bad in bed?’ He sounds so incredulous, so utterly taken aback by the idea that perhaps he’s a selfish lover who can’t please his wife.
‘Are you?’
‘Of course not.’ But his voice is too loud, his bravado so gossamer thin it’s see-through.
‘I don’t mean in a technical way,’ I reassure him, placing my hand on his knee for a second. ‘I mean perhaps you’re emotionally unavailable. That you’re not there for her when she needs it.’
‘So why isn’t she having a proper affair? Hmm? Why is she paying for cock?’
I pretend to blanche a little at the crassness of his words.
He notices my response. ‘Sorry,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s just… I love her and now she’s done this to me.’
Here’s the funny thing. He never once mentions how much the escort looks like him. Like he hasn’t even noticed the similarity. Or grasped the significance. I don’t point it out to him. Don’t tell him that she’s chosen to play out a fantasy in which her husband, the man she fell in love with, isn’t actually a total dick. She obviously still loves him. It makes me feel a bit queasy.
How can such a brilliant woman be so dumb?
Lawrence and I carry on drinking together into the early hours. Well, I’m sipping beer. He’s slamming back the shots like they are going out of fashion. Jägermeister is surprisingly strong, about thirty-five percent, almost as much as shooting neat vodka. His words are starting to slur, his movements messy.
‘We could go to your hotel,’ he says as the clock strikes one. This is the first time he has made any type of approach on me. I’m almost offended he thinks I would have so little self-respect as to take him home.
Up until this point, my plan was just to stop him from making any more of a tit out of himself. To make sure he didn’t decide to go back to the hotel and knock on the door to every room until he found Katerina and her escort. But then I realise what a gift I have almost drooling in front of me as he struggles to keep upright on his barstool.
What if I could get him to take me back to his house? He’s certainly angry enough with his wife to punish her in the worst possible way he can think of. Do you remember when I said it was best to find reasons for you to have been in the vicinity of a crime for completely valid reasons? Well, how about putting my fingerprints legitimately into my future victim’s house.
Now, I would absolutely expect the Delaney-Jansens have a housekeeper who’s extremely fastidious and so it’s highly unlikely there would be any of my fingerprints left by the time I kill Lawrence. And I will obviously wear gloves on that final visit. But there is always a chance, a margin of error. If my fingerprint, even just a partial, was ever found at the Delaney-Jansen house, this would be my alibi, my get-out-of-jail-free card. Plus it’s an excellent opportunity to have a proper poke around where he lives.
‘We shouldn’t,’ I reply, but my body language doesn’t match my words as I lean closer to him.
‘Live a little,’ he breathes beery-Jägermeistery fumes in my face and I force myself not to recoil.
‘My work has strict rules about guests in hotels.’ My hand slips to his knee and I bite my lower lip.
‘Oh.’ He looks crestfallen. I slide my hand higher up his leg and watch as his tiny brain lands on an alternative plan. ‘You could come home with me?’
Well, that was easy. He really is a fool. ‘How far is it?’ I ask, my hand creeping another inch towards his – most likely pathetic – dick.
‘Not far,’ he says. ‘I have a driver.’
Not far is a bit of a stretch given it’s more than fifteen miles and will take half an hour each way, but the driver creates another layer in my alibi. ‘How will I get back?’
‘My driver will bring you back; I’m a gentleman.’
He has just invited a stranger to his marital home for a quick fuck to get back at his wife. The very epitome of a gentleman. I pause for a moment as if I might still turn him down. In reality I’m just calculating if I can get enough alcohol down his throat to put him into a coma on the journey to Starnberg. I’m obviously not going to sleep with him.
‘OK,’ I finally say to him. Whisky should do the trick.
‘You won’t regret this…’ he trails off and a look of confusion crosses his face. ‘Umm… oh shit…’
‘Freya.’ I tell him, feigning a laugh that he’d forgotten my name. He hadn’t, he never actually asked. Which is quite lucky, as I was going to tell him my name was Francoise. Which would have rather fucked up my alibi plan. Now I just need to fade out the French accent before I meet his driver. No need to over-complicate things and he won’t remember the accent in the morning. He doesn’t react to my name. Makes no connection to the girl he knew all those years ago.
‘Why don’t you get us a bottle for the road and I’ll call my driver.’ Then he leans in, slightly unsteady so he has to grip the edge of the bar to stop himself falling. ‘Freya,’ he whispers my name as if it’s the most glamorous thing he’s ever heard. ‘Are you ready for a night you won’t forget?’
I simper, even as I want to vomit into my own mouth. ‘Your wife doesn’t know what she’s missing.’
Lawrence must have the constitution of a horse, or be a borderline alcoholic, because he’s still standing when we pull up outside the house at 2 a.m. He’s obviously drunk, but he can still walk. And unfortunately, he can still talk, keeping up an almost constant commentary of the things he wants to do to me when we get inside. Actually, that’s not quite true. He has kept up an almost constant commentary of the things he wants me to do to him. He’s a selfish pig and I’m not surprised at all that Katerina is with the escort. I envy her at this moment.
Inside the house he leads me down a huge wide corridor. Everything is in neutral tones, but not in a sparse IKEA way. It’s subtly stylish, contemporary without being brutalist. If I wasn’t going to kill her husband, I’d be asking Katerina who her interior designer was. Lawrence shows me into the living room. More neutral tones provide a sense of muted calm, except for the statement sofa and matching armchairs in a glorious deep blue print, picked through with silver accents like the night sky.
He sits heavily on the sofa and pats the seat next to him. I need a new plan to disarm him. It’s staring me in the face. ‘Is this your wedding?’ I ask. It’s a stupid question because Katerina is dressed in white, with a veil and a bouquet of flowers.
He grunts in response.
‘Your children?’ I point at the large framed portrait above the fireplace. ‘You all look so happy.’
‘We were.’ He sounds sad, almost wistful. Exactly what I was hoping for.
‘Do you still love her?’
He pauses for a moment, then he says, ‘I don’t want to talk about her.’
‘Because she betrayed you?’
‘Because I…’ but he doesn’t finish.
I move towards him, sitting a little distance away on one of the chairs. The fabric is more beautiful up close but I try to keep my focus on Lawrence. ‘Do you still love her?’ I repeat my question.
‘Yes,’ he whispers.
‘I think she still loves you.’
‘Then why did she…’ he wipes a tear with a brusque flick of his wrist and swallows. ‘She’s cheating on me.’
‘You bought a stranger home from a bar.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Is it?’ I pluck a tissue from a chestnut coloured leather box and hand it to him.
Once he starts crying, he can’t stop, blubbering like a baby all over the covetable upholstery.
I play the understanding friend. Tuck him up in bed. Let him sleep it off.
Thank God that worked! Now I have a few hours to get to know the layout of the house before he wakes up and I can ask for his driver to take me back to the city.
This has all worked out perfectly.
You might be wondering why I don’t just kill him tonight. And I’ll admit it’s tempting, I’ve already run through a series of potential methods, how I might get away with it. But none of them are good enough.
There would be two suspects if he was murdered tonight. Myself, which instantly discounts the option. And Katerina. It wouldn’t be much of a reach to think she came home and killed him in the midst of a screaming match between them. I won’t make her another victim.
I have contemplated the suicide route, he does have an excellent motive after witnessing his wife’s infidelity this evening. But it’s such a difficult method to get right and I haven’t done the planning.
So, he’s safe. For tonight at least.
The rest of the Delaney-Jansen home is exactly what I was expecting after seeing the living room. It’s large and spacious and elegantly furnished, the odd statement piece used to great effect.
In the basement I discover a gun cupboard – padlocked of course, Katerina would never be that dumb – plus a large wine cellar and a sound-proofed cinema room. The soundproofing could be useful to avoid the neighbours overhearing anything. I make a mental note and continue my exploration.
I hit the jackpot in the kitchen when I find an iPad mini. Lawrence is snoring like a hog and doesn’t wake up when I use his thumbprint to unlock it. And there, in a notes document, is the gold. All of their security codes are listed. I now have their Wi-Fi password, Alexa controls, the ability to shut down their external CCTV network. Oh, plus the four digit code to the gun cupboard padlock and the security code for the alarm system.
All I need to do now is find a time that the rest of the family are definitely away.
I’m almost looking forward to it.
Lawrence wakes up at seven and organises for his driver to come and pick me up. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly, refusing to make eye contact.
‘That’s OK,’ I reply.
‘I just couldn’t go ahead with it. I know you must have been disappointed.’ He sounds serious. Like I spent the night crying over his rebuttal.
‘Well, I—’
‘It’s not personal. You’re quite attractive, really. Please don’t take my rejection as a sign of your own failure.’
Wow. Just wow. ‘I hope it all works out with your wife,’ I say, even though I know Katerina will soon be a very happy widow, thankful to whoever it is who helped get rid of her marital baggage.
Alexander, the driver, barely speaks as we head back to the city and I watch the trees sliding past us on the Autobahn. I can only assume he thinks I slept with his boss last night and he’ll do everything in his power to forget the mental image he’s conjured. He’ll never connect me with the brutal murder of his boss in a few weeks’ time.
I smile to myself and sink back into the soft leather seat of the car.
‘Thank you for the lift,’ I say as we pull up outside the hotel.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replies, his tone perfunctory.
She’s sitting in the foyer waiting for me.
‘Good morning, Freya,’ she says, irritatingly chirpy.
‘Good morning, Camille.’
‘Early walk?’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I reply.
‘Hmmm…’ she says, her eyes travelling from my face to the drab suit and blouse combination. The blouse looks a little crumpled; I have been wearing it all night after all. ‘Well, I’m going to have some breakfast. Will you join me?’
‘Of course,’ I reply, even though it’s the last thing I want to do.
