by Jane Corry
Jane Corry
* * *
THE KILLING TYPE
Contents
Danielle
Four weeks later: Susie
Four months later: Danielle
Six months later: Susie
A month later: Danielle
Postscript: Susie
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Danielle
Where was she? Danielle looked around yet again for signs of her sister Susie. Nothing. Only some smart middle-aged mothers in ankle-cropped trousers and boxy jackets with designer babies slung round their necks.
When they’d been children, Danielle reflected, they would come to this café for an occasional treat. ‘Sit still,’ Mum would say to her when she bounced around on her chair. ‘Look how well-behaved Susie is, reading her book nicely.’
Sometimes she wondered how they could possibly be sisters. Rose Red and Snow White, their mother had often called them. Danielle was Rose Red, the dark-haired cheerful one. Susie was the quiet one, always writing something.
Danielle glanced at her ‘Sent’ messages once more to check the exact wording of the panicky text she had fired off to her older sister yesterday.
I need to talk to you. It’s about Simon. Meet you in the old café. 12 o’clock.
Susie hadn’t even bothered to reply, but Danielle had come anyway. Surely, despite everything, Susie would turn up?
‘Another coffee, madam?’ asked the waitress, interrupting her thoughts.
‘No, thanks.’ She’d had her caffeine quota for the day and besides, she already felt anxious enough. Danielle drummed her polished fingernails impatiently on the table. If only she could have had the kind of sister that her friends seemed to have. Best buddies who could tell each other everything. Help each other when things were going wrong. Work together rather than go head to head.
Their mother had always wanted that. ‘My girls,’ she would say fondly when they were younger, as if willing them to be close. After all, there were only fourteen months between them. They could almost have been twins. ‘So sad that your father was taken too soon to see you grow up.’
Mum had been right about Simon. When Danielle had first introduced them, it was obvious Mum didn’t like him. ‘He’s too old for you,’ she had said after he had gone.
Susie had told their mother not to make assumptions. ‘He’s perfect,’ she told Danielle firmly. But over the next few weeks and then months, their mother had kept saying that she didn’t ‘trust him’.
Mum. What was she going to do? There had to be a way to solve the problem.
She checked her phone one last time. Nothing. Danielle looked round for the waitress. Might as well get the bill and …
Danielle gave a start. The door had opened and a woman with rather messy wind-blown blonde hair was hovering at the entrance. Their eyes met. And Danielle felt a wave of relief as well as a deep, dark rush of premonition.
Four weeks later
Susie
‘So, Susie,’ the policeman says to me as if we know each other instead of having only just met. Thirteen minutes ago, to be precise, judging by the clock on the wall. In that time he’s told me that my sister has been in a car accident. She’s shaken rather than hurt, but she is accusing Simon of tampering with the brakes. It seems like something from one of the crime novels I love reading.
‘Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, exactly what your sister Danielle said when she met you in the Café Amor last month?’
‘Of course.’ I try smiling at him, but PC Davies’s expression is impenetrable. He has deep-set eyes which seem to bore through me. I wish I wasn’t here. The police station, with its heavy doors and the notices on the wall (‘Violence Towards Staff Will Not Be Tolerated’), makes me feel like a criminal.
‘As I said, Danielle had sent me a text to say that she needed to talk to me about her husband.’
‘Simon King.’
I nod.
He looks down at his notes. ‘Your brother-in-law is a banker and he’s … fifty-six years old.’
‘Yes,’ I reply, wondering whether he’s making a point about the age difference between him and my sister or whether he’s simply getting his facts right.
‘And were you surprised to receive such a text from your sister?’
There’s a pause.
‘I’m not sure I understand what you mean. I was concerned that she needed to talk to me urgently about Simon.’
‘And what’s your personal opinion of Simon King, Susie?’ Again, his tone of voice is completely flat. He’s giving nothing away.
‘Of course, I don’t know him that well,’ I say slowly, carefully. ‘I haven’t seen a great deal of my sister over the last couple of years.’ He glances up sharply at this. ‘But I liked him when we first met,’ I add quickly.
Naturally our mother had had doubts. I remembered her telling Danielle so at the time. But only because Simon was so much older. I had found him rather charming: there was something of the sophisticated bachelor about him. And Danielle had seemed smitten.
‘My sister appeared very happy when she first married him,’ I continue.
‘And from what I could see, he was devoted to her.’
‘So when you got to the café, what exactly did your sister tell you?’
I think back to when I saw Danielle, sitting in the café in her pale green jeans, stirring the froth at the bottom of an otherwise empty coffee cup. ‘She told me,’ I say, ‘that she thought her husband Simon was trying to kill her.’
‘Did your sister say how her husband was trying to do this?’
Is that scepticism in his voice? Or am I imagining it?
‘Sounds rather crazy, I know …’
‘It’s important you tell me everything you know, Susie.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Well, she said he’d tried a few times. Apparently, he had put prawns in a curry when he knows they give her a severe allergic reaction. Not long after, she fell in the shower. Simon had cleaned it beforehand and the new cleanser had left a slippery residue.’
Still no expression on his face. ‘And what did you say to your sister when she told you this?’
I hesitate. I feel awful for doing this. But Simon is clearly innocent. ‘I accused her of overreacting and told her these were all accidents. That thing with the prawns, for example. In all likelihood, he’d simply forgotten. She’s got loads of allergies. I told her she should count herself lucky she has a husband who wanted to clean the shower. I guess that looks callous now, but I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Did your sister say why she thought her husband would want to kill her?’
‘She said he was having an affair. That he wanted to leave her for someone else. But …’ I’m searching for the right words. ‘But that’s not motivation for murder. He could simply divorce her. He’s just not the killing type.’
PC Davies gives a small nod.
‘Danielle can be a bit melodramatic,’ I add. ‘You know she’s an actress? Well, actually, she wanted to be, but it didn’t quite work out, so she does it in her spare time now. Sometimes I worry that she doesn’t know what’s reality and what isn’t.’
I glance at my watch. ‘Is there anything else? Only I’m due to interview someone in half an hour.’
He looks interested. ‘You’re a journalist, you say?’
I nod.
‘Which newspaper do you work for?’
‘It’s a local publication, actually.’
He looks less impressed. I’m used to this. People have always been dismissive of my writing, Danielle included. But all I need is a break, I tell myself. One day I’ll get noticed by one of the nationals, get a regular column, write my book. Finally I’ll do something to make mum proud.
�
�Just one last thing, Susie. Tell me honestly. Do you think Simon King would try to kill your sister?’
He’s looking straight at me now.
I have to say it. ‘No, I don’t.’
PC Davies nods, closes his notebook, and escorts me to the door. ‘We place great importance on looking after vulnerable women,’ he says, almost as if he’s talking to himself. ‘But in this case, given everything you’ve said …’
He opens the door. And there, waiting for us, is Danielle. Somehow, she must have got past the officer on reception.
She is staring at me, her heavily made-up face creased with rage. There’s a bruise on her arm from the crash which looks worse than when I saw it last. ‘You told him I was making it up, didn’t you?’ She turns to PC Davies. ‘Well, it’s not true. She’s never liked me. I’m telling you. My husband is trying to kill me.’ She jabs a finger at me. ‘You always fancied him. I bet you’ve got designs on him yourself.’
The policeman has to pull her off me. A woman who’s come in to report a lost cat is staring at us, horrified. ‘I’m sorry, Danielle,’ I say, stepping away from my sister. ‘I’m afraid I can’t lie for you. It’s not right.’ She looks as though she could rip my head off.
PC Davies steps in between us. ‘I suggest you go home, Mrs King. Just be grateful we haven’t charged you for wasting police time.’
‘Or mine.’ I glare at my sister. ‘I’ve got to get to work now.’
She glares back and then turns on her high heels with a flourish and flounces off through the automatic doors.
Not long afterwards, I receive an official letter. The case against Simon has been dropped for ‘lack of evidence’.
Later that week I get a text from Danielle.
Simon has thrown me out. I hope you’re happy now.
Four months later
Danielle
Where on earth was the bus? At this rate, she was going to be late. Danielle shuffled from one foot to the other, trying to keep her distance from the other people in the queue. It seemed almost impossible to believe that only a few months ago, she’d owned a beautiful house in a Hertfordshire village not far from London, with a smart car and a gardener.
Simon had been clever when it had come to the divorce settlement. He’d had a good lawyer, as she’d known he would. And now Danielle was living in a small flat, with no garden, unable to afford the cost of running a car. But at least she was free of him.
Ah. At last. Here came the bus. The others all piled on in front as she stood there, fumbling for some change. Oh, dear. She was sure she had a few coins somewhere at the bottom of her bag.
‘Sorry,’ said the driver. ‘Can’t wait.’
Danielle felt panic gripping her chest. ‘But I’m going to visit my mum. She’ll get into a terrible state if I’m late. She’s waiting for me.’
The driver shook his head. ‘Trust me, love. I’ve heard all the excuses in my job. This bus has got to leave on time and that’s the end of it. If you haven’t got the fare, you’ll have to get off.’
Tears sprang to her eyes. Then – yes! – Danielle saw one of the women in the queue holding out a coin. ‘Have this, love. Can’t have your mum waiting, can we?’
Grateful as she was, Danielle still felt humiliated. ‘Thank you,’ she said. What had she come to?
Just as she took her seat, her mobile rang. ‘Can’t afford a fare,’ said one of the passengers loudly, ‘but she can run a phone.’
Ignoring them, she took the call.
It was Sandi, one of her friends from the local am-dram group. ‘How are you doing, ducks?’
‘I’m OK, thanks.’
‘You don’t sound it. I’ll ring back another time, shall I? I had something to share with you but it can wait.’
Danielle knew Sandi well enough to know something was up. ‘Please. Just tell me.’
Her friend sighed. ‘I don’t want to add to your troubles but a little bird told me that she’d seen your Susie in a bridal outfit coming out of the registry office with someone.’
‘Who was she with?’
‘Apparently – now prepare yourself, ducks – it was Simon. Danielle? Are you still there?’
Six months later
Susie
‘Susan King. You are accused of the murder of Simon King. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
I’ve never been inside a court before. It’s not what I expected. On television, they’re big old rooms with wooden panelling and an open sort of platform where the accused stands, wringing his or her hands. This court is quite modern and without windows, which I find very claustrophobic. It’s made worse by the fact that I’m in an enclosed glass box myself, as if they are scared I might try to do a runner. There’s a microphone so the judge and jury can hear me. They look like the sort of ordinary people you might stand behind in a supermarket queue. Yet they hold my life in their hands. I make eye contact with one and she glances away – but not before taking in my arm.
‘Which way do you plead, Mrs King?’
I’ve told them all this before – including the barrister who has agreed to argue my case without charge. Apparently his firm does this every now and then for ‘deserving causes’. He’s very young. I can only hope he knows his stuff.
‘Not guilty,’ I say.
The woman on the jury, whom I’d made eye contact with just now, gives me an ‘I don’t believe you’ look. As a writer, you develop a skill for reading other people’s expressions. I try to ignore her.
The trial starts. I’m feeling quite faint. It doesn’t help that my sister is in the spectators’ gallery. What would Mum say if she could see us now?
A barrister for the other side is talking. She’s telling the jury why they should find me guilty. ‘This is a manipulative woman who had been struggling for years as a low-paid writer while her sister led a life of luxury. One of her interviewees declared that Susie had deliberately misquoted her in order to “get a better story”. Susie was also jealous of Danielle’s beauty and believed that their mother favoured her. According to a former family friend, Susie had a “chip on her shoulder which would sometimes lead to furious family arguments”. So when her sister’s marriage broke up, Susie saw an opportunity to get back at Danielle. She married her wealthy brother-in-law almost before the ink had dried on the divorce papers.’
The jury are riveted. I can see it in their eyes.
‘But then she discovered that her new husband still had feelings for Danielle, despite everything. Susie couldn’t bear the idea of being second-best in her husband’s eyes as well as her mother’s. So in a fit of rage, she killed Simon.’
It’s not true, I want to yell out. But I suspect no one will believe me.
At last I am called to give evidence.
‘Susan King,’ my barrister says, ‘would you like to tell the court in your own words, exactly what happened in the months leading up to Simon King’s death?’
‘Of course.’ My voice wobbles, and I begin again. ‘It’s a long story …’
I bet it is, say the eyes of the hostile woman juror.
‘I bumped into Simon in the village shortly after their marriage ended,’ I tell the court. ‘He looked awful. I suppose I felt sorry for him. He told me that he’d never tried to hurt Danielle. He said she was always making things up for attention. I knew this was true myself because my sister had been telling lies about me to Mum for as long as I can remember.’
‘And how would you describe you and your sister’s relationship?’
‘We … have our difficulties. We lost our father when we were young and we were both competing for Mum’s attention.’
Something is happening in the face of the hostile woman juror. She’s looking uneasy. Maybe she has a tricky sister too.
The court is very quiet. I am aware that each member of the jury is scrutinizing my every word. ‘So when Simon told me that day that my sister was lying, I’m sorry to say I believed him.’
I stop for a minute, remembering
that scene. Simon had looked so upset. His handsome face was creased with anxiety and instead of being the strong man he usually appeared, he seemed like a small boy in need of comfort. ‘They’ve dropped the charges, but it’s too late,’ he told me, running his hands through his sandy hair. ‘My reputation is ruined. One chap told me there was “no smoke without fire”. I’m going to have to move house.’
‘No, don’t,’ I told him. ‘Otherwise people really will think you have something to hide. Stay put.’
When I bumped into him again a few days later and he asked me out for a drink, I found myself saying yes.
‘How quickly did your relationship become more than platonic?’ asks my barrister, interrupting my train of thought.
‘Within a few weeks,’ I admit. ‘It took me by surprise. I didn’t mean it to happen.’
I close my eyes for a minute. Then I glance up to my sister in the spectators’ gallery. She meets my gaze and holds it.
‘Simon proposed marriage almost immediately after the divorce came through. Part of me wondered if he was doing it to get his own back on my sister. He knew we’d never got on.’
‘Is that why you agreed to marry him?’ asks my barrister. We had agreed beforehand that he’d push me like this so I could pre-empt the question that was bound to be in the jurors’ minds.
‘No.’ My voice rings out indignantly. ‘I fell for him. He could be very charming. Simon could make you feel like the only person in the world. I didn’t realize then that this was just a front.’
I don’t add that part of me wondered what it would be like to stand in my sister’s shoes. Instead, I look towards the spectators’ gallery again.
‘Can you tell us what happened after he proposed?’
‘We had a small wedding,’ I continue, ‘just a couple of my friends and Simon’s important clients. He doesn’t have any family. He was an only child and his parents had died years ago. And my mother … she wasn’t well enough to come. We went to the Maldives for our honeymoon.’
