by Edwin Dasso
“I don’t know why I waste my time with you. There are so many men out there who can give me a better life. Who will treat me better than you.”
“Then go then,” I countered. “Leave me. If you...” The words caught as I stifled a sob. “If you think everything has been a waste, if I’ve made you so miserable, let’s end it now. Leave me.”
She stepped back and stared at me, anger filling her face with ugliness.
“That’s what you want, right?” she snarled. “So, you can run off with your slutty waitresses? You bastard. It’s been your plan all along.”
“What the hell is the matter with you?” I thumped the countertop. “You are not making any fucking sense!” I rubbed my face with my hands and dug my fingertips into my temples. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you to treat me like a human being, an equal. Just to be nice, instead of treating me like shit.”
“Treat you like shit?”
“Yes! Listen to yourself. You’ve gone mad.”
“Bastard! Calling me mad?” She stepped closer, her face so close to mine, I could feel the spray of saliva when she spoke. “Worthless motherfucker. You’re not even a man.” She spat the last word as if it poisoned her mouth to say it.
“Come on…” There was intense pressure in my head, and my hands were shaking. “We had such a lovely evening, excellent food, great company. Why are you behaving like this? You do this all the time. We have a couple of good days, then you go nuts. You’re acting crazy.”
“Fucking bastard!” She shoved my chest, pushing me against the countertop again. I wanted to push her away, but deep down, I knew if I did, she would use that against me, so I did nothing.
“That’s all you are, a useless fucking bastard.” She sneered again, looked me up and down, then stepped back. “Good for nothing.”
She turned on her heel and headed out of the kitchen.
“Then leave. If I’ve made you so miserable, ruined your life,” I shouted after her. “What’s the point in carrying on?” My voice trailed off into an angry, frustrated sob. “Okay… I’ll leave you. Stop ruining your life.”
I looked down at the floor, my hands balled into fists again, and pounded my thighs as tears ran down my cheeks.
“Leave me, really?”
I looked up in shock. I hadn’t heard her return.
“If you think you are going to leave me, you’d better watch out. I’ll make you wish you had never been born.”
I stared across the kitchen at this... this… thing that had taken over my wife’s body. That’s all she was now. It wasn’t the woman I had fallen in love with. It was something else.
“Leave me, huh?” she scoffed, then walked away, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
I heard the bedroom door slam, then the lock on the door turn.
Sliding down onto the floor, I sat with my back against the cupboards, tears streaming down my face. My body shook with rage and frustration, and my chest ached with despair. I was trapped, and I couldn’t see a way out.
16
She had to go. It was the only way. She would never give me a divorce. I needed to get out of there and start life afresh—be free—and live without the constant fear that whatever I said or did would be judged and used against me. I just wanted to... relax.
I spent a mostly sleepless night on the spare bed, only drifting off to sleep around three a.m. I woke early, just as the dawn’s rays lit up the room. I had forgotten to close the curtains. I was exhausted, and my head throbbed from a combination of stress and the red wine I’d had the night before. I wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, but I couldn’t face seeing her and spending the morning trying to avoid her in the confines of the same house. Sitting up, I rubbed my face and massaged my temples. I could feel acid rising in the back of my throat, my teeth were furry, and my breath smelled of old food and wine.
Standing, I walked to the kitchen, filled a glass from the tap, and gulped it down. I felt a little better.
I walked back into the spare bedroom, stripped off, and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pound the back of my neck and back. As I leaned against the rear wall with my eyes closed, I thought over everything that had happened, trying once more to work out where I was to blame, what I had done wrong, what I should have done differently. It was a pointless exercise—as always. The same thought process had kept me awake last night, and I hadn’t found a solution. I never did.
There was nothing I could do to make her happy. No matter how hard I tried, she would find something, anything to set her off on a vile tirade of poisonous accusations. It wasn’t me. It was her.
Tears filled my eyes and ran down my face, mixing with the hot water from the shower. I balled my hand into a fist and pounded the tiled wall with the fleshy heel of my hand. I couldn’t go on like this. If I didn’t kill her, I would have a nervous breakdown or a heart attack.
I sniffed, then blew my nose into my hand, washing the snot away in the shower stream. Straightening up, I let the water wash over my face, then turned the shower to cold, gasping at the temperature change. I forced myself to stay there, then turned, so the icy stream ran down my back before turning it off.
It did the trick. As I stood there, shivering in the early morning light, I finally felt awake, alive, and determined.
I knew what I had to do, and I was going to spend the day working out how.
17
I was out of the house by seven, this time remembering my car keys and my wallet. I was still in the clothes from the previous evening, a little overdressed for a Saturday morning, but all my clothes were in the locked bedroom with Clara.
I released the handbrake and allowed the car to roll backward down the driveway onto the road before starting the engine. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t want to give her any clue where I was, what time I left, or what I was doing.
I needed coffee and internet access and knew the best place for it.
My favorite coffee shop didn’t open until eight, so I drove north out of town, taking the old Roman road toward Andover through rolling farmland lined with hedgerows and flint walls. There was very little traffic, so I drove slowly with the windows down, breathing in the cool, crisp autumn air. At the top of a gentle rise, I pulled over, parked, and stepped out. I sat on the edge of the hood and gazed out across the fields. A light mist lingered in the folds, and in the distance, I could hear the distinctive crow of a male pheasant. It was cool enough for me to see my breath, but despite not wearing a jacket, I didn’t feel cold. I was excited I had made my decision, and that was keeping me warm.
A movement caught my eye, and I turned my head to see a pair of rabbits bounding across the field. They stopped halfway and stared at me before continuing across the field and disappearing into a hedgerow. I grinned. Perhaps the world wasn’t so bad after all.
Maybe there was a new life waiting for me. A life filled with joy and wonder, and who knows, maybe love too. I shrugged as if I wasn’t alone and shook my head. Considering what I was going through at the moment, the last thing I should do is jump back into a relationship. What if all women were the same? Nice in the beginning, but transforming into unreasonable demonic creatures after a few years. No, I was better off single.
A sudden gust of wind chilled my neck, sending a shiver down my spine. I pulled up the collar of my shirt before checking my watch—still time. I climbed back into the car and continued on my way. Just before reaching Andover, I turned west, then south again, taking a slow, circuitous route through the Hampshire countryside, through tiny villages of thatched-roofed and brick-and-flint walled farmhouses. It was a beautiful part of England, and I resolved to spend more time exploring the countryside once I had sorted out my current situation. Maybe I could get a mountain bike? I would have a lot more free time if I didn’t have to justify what I was doing, where I was going, or only think of activities we could do together.
I reached the outskirts of Winchester just after eight and join
ed the slow stream of traffic heading into the town center. Finding free parking on a residential street a few blocks from the center, I retrieved my laptop bag from the passenger seat, locked the car, and walked the short distance into town.
18
I found a table near the back, away from the window, reserved it with my laptop bag and phone, and walked up to the counter. The barista knew me by sight and smiled a greeting.
“You’re in early.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, not bothering to explain.
“The usual?”
“Please. Ah, make it a double shot.”
“Hard night, huh?” the barista grinned.
I smiled, left some cash on the counter, and returned to my seat.
Opening my laptop, I waited until it connected to the wi-fi, then opened a browser.
Now, where did I start?
Drumming my fingers on the table, I stared across the empty café and out the window. There were a few early shoppers like me, but the street was quite empty. A council worker in overalls and a high-vis vest emptied the bin on the other side of the road, while behind him, a shopkeeper unlocked the front door of their shop.
How would I kill her?
It needed to be a way that deflected all suspicion away from me. I had read somewhere, that most murders are committed by people known to the victim, so I was going to be high on the suspect list. I needed to make sure suspicion pointed elsewhere.
Perhaps a failed burglary? She wakes up in the middle of the night, disturbs the burglar, and he stabs her. I could break a window, scatter things around the house, set the scene. The more I thought about it, the less I liked the idea. Why didn’t the burglar stab me? What was I doing at the time? The police would look for footprints outside, fingerprints inside, evidence someone else had been in the house. No, too hard.
What if she just disappeared? I could kill her and bury her in the countryside somewhere, then call the police and report her missing. That idea had possibilities. I would have to be extremely careful about how I killed her. I couldn’t risk the police finding traces of blood in the house. Didn’t they have some special light, UV or something, that showed blood even after a surface had been wiped down? So, I couldn’t stab her. I didn’t have a gun or even know where to get one, so shooting was out too.
The barista came over with my coffee, and I told him to keep the change. I took a sip of the double shot cappuccino and gave him a nod of appreciation. He gave me a thumbs up and started polishing cups behind the counter.
I went back to staring at the blank computer screen. The actual killing part, I would work out later. If she just disappeared, I would need to make it look like she had walked out on me, never to be found again. She couldn’t just disappear from home without a trace. All fingers would point to me. How would she go? Car? I frowned. No. Her car, a high value and sought-after performance car, had a GPS tracker. They would find it in no time. I could drive it to the train station, park it there, let the police assume she caught the train. I thought about that for a while, but in the end, dismissed it. Nowadays, there were cameras everywhere. Even if I wasn’t spotted parking the car, they would check all the CCTV footage and wonder why they couldn’t find her on it.
I had another thought and pulled the laptop closer, angling the screen away from the counter, so the staff couldn’t see it. I opened a new browser in incognito mode and typed in, ‘how long before a missing person is declared dead?’
The answer popped up on the screen, and I made a face. Seven years.
We owned a house together with a sizeable amount of equity, and she also held a life insurance policy. I wasn’t doing this for the money, but if I was going to kill her, I might as well make it financially worthwhile. Seven years was too long to wait. That gave me another thought. Neither of us had made a will, at least I definitely hadn’t, and I was pretty sure Clara didn’t have one. Who would inherit the property and insurance policy when she died? I thought I knew the answer, but it was worth checking. I searched again, reading a few results to make sure, then sat back in my chair. I took another sip of coffee and wiped the milk froth from my top lip. As her husband, I would inherit everything.
So, that narrowed down my options. She couldn’t go missing. There had to be a body. I drained my coffee cup and signaled to the barista for a repeat.
It was going to be a long day.
19
I was starting to feel buzzed from the coffee. I’d just finished my third, although I had reduced them to single shots, and my heart was doing a little dance in my chest. Standing, I filled a glass of water from the counter and sat down again.
Taking a sip, I leaned back in my chair and gazed around the café. It was now half-full as people came in for their Saturday morning caffeine fix or took a break from shopping, and the air was filled with chatter.
So far, I had got nowhere. All I had managed was to eliminate options, but I still didn’t have a solution.
I considered faking a suicide, but after much thought and a lot of research, I dismissed the idea. For me to stage a suicide, I would need to drug her, then hang her, drown her, or cut her wrists. I didn’t fancy cutting her wrists, and even if I did hang her, anything I drugged her with would show up in her system. Also, her friends and colleagues would all testify to the fact that she wasn’t the suicidal type, so again, all fingers would point to me.
Home accident? Slipping on the floor and hitting her head? Electrocution? House fire?
I liked none of those—too risky, and creating a situation for an accident to happen was fraught with difficulty. There were too many chances it wouldn’t happen as planned.
I would have to poison her.
I drained the water glass and sat forward, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How did the KGB do it? Were they still called that? They were always coming to England, killing people, and getting away with it. In fact, the most recent assassination, although a failure, had taken place only a few miles away in the neighboring city of Salisbury,
I typed ‘Salisbury poisoning’ into the search bar and started reading. Within a couple of sentences, I exhaled with frustration. The Russians had used a nerve agent called Novichok. There’s no way I could get that, and besides, it sounded so horrible, I would be terrified to handle it. I typed in a new search, ‘Russian assassinations UK.’
Scanning through the results, I found a list of fifteen people who were rumored to have been assassinated by Russian agents. I ran my eyes down the list. Polonium had killed one, another died in a helicopter crash, and several were suspicious suicides. However two caught my eye as worthy of further investigation.
Badri Patarkatsishvili, once the richest man in Georgia, died suddenly of a heart attack after a dinner, and traces of a plant-derived poison were found in the stomach of Alexander Perepilichny after he was found dead outside his home.
I smiled and sat back in my chair. That’s how I would do it. I would poison her with something—something untraceable. Something that would make it look like she had died of natural causes. For the first time in a while, I felt like I was achieving something.
My phone buzzed, and I leaned to one side and eased it out of my pocket.
Glancing at the screen, my excitement faded away.
It was a message from Clara.
Where are you?
20
I stared at the screen, my insides churning.
Should I reply?
I checked the time on the screen.
She would have been up for a couple of hours. Why was she only messaging now? I ground my teeth together. She probably couldn’t find something or had suddenly realized she would have to make her own lunch. I cursed under my breath.
After a minute, I turned the phone over and laid it face down on the table. I had better things to do.
Poison.
What did the FSB—I had discovered they weren’t called KGB anymore—use to kill Alexander Perepilichny? I researched some more. Apparently, a plant cal
led Gelsemium Elegans, otherwise known as Heartbreak Grass, highly toxic and known to trigger cardiac arrest. Perfect.
Except it wasn’t.
The plant was native to China and parts of Asia. Where would I find it in England?
I switched to researching Patarkatsishvili’s death. The police concluded he died of natural causes. However, the death was shrouded in enough mystery for suspicion to remain. Despite digging deeper, I couldn’t find anything more, although one report suggested a substance called sodium fluoroacetate could have been used. Apparently, the FSB liked it since it caused heart failure but supposedly left little trace. The substance was widely used in rat poison.
I thought about it for a while but didn’t like it. I couldn’t believe it would be untraceable.
I thought back to the gelsemium. I needed to find something like that. I remembered reading a thriller about an Englishman in India who used the powdered seeds of a plant to avenge the killing of his wife. The book was fiction but had seemed well-researched. What was the name of the seed?
I wracked my brain but couldn’t remember and eventually gave up. From what I remembered, the plant was native to India, so even if I did find one in England, I would probably have to purchase it, thereby creating a trail that could lead back to me.
No.
I needed an English plant, and one I could find in the wild.
The phone buzzed again, and I automatically reached for it before stopping myself. What if it was Clara again? What should I do? I didn’t want to go back home, but I couldn’t stay out indefinitely. I chewed my lip and stared out the window. The street was now full of pedestrians milling around, staring in shop windows, their arms laden with bags. A couple walked past arm in arm, the woman throwing her head back and laughing out loud as her partner shared a joke. In the opposite direction, an old lady walked with a stick. Her husband walked beside her, a flat cap pulled low over his head, a shopping bag in one hand. Their lives seemed so normal.
