Murder Game

by Emmy Ellis

  Instead of the neighbours she’d expected, the police stood there, the same ones as yesterday, and she attempted to stifle a sigh of irritation. The day before had gone much like this, and she was buggered if she’d allow it today.

  “Look,” she said, “I told you all I knew yesterday, and that was a load of nothing.”

  “May we come in, Mrs Blessing?”

  Fitzsimmons was staring at her funny. Hadn’t he seen a just-woken-up woman before?

  “Really?” she asked. “Surely if you have another couple of questions you can ask them here. I have to get my kids up for school then start work, and while, to put it bluntly, Ted being taken is a major concern to some, it isn’t to me. We weren’t friends, he’s just some old man, know what I mean? Sounds wicked, but there you have it.”

  “It isn’t about Mr Gancy,” Fitzsimmons said. “And we really do need to come in.”

  She sighed, an overdramatic gust of breath, and stepped back, easing the door wider. Cold rushed in, circling her bare feet and ankles, springing up goose flesh.

  That’s it, take your time so my house gets sodding cold. “Come in, then.”

  She led the way through the living room and into the kitchen. Might as well make herself a cuppa while they were here. It’d fully wake her up and help her to get her brain working properly. Coffee was always good for that. Mind you, she was pretty awake anyway. Coppers at the door would do that to you.

  The front door closed. Footsteps shushed across the living room carpet, turning to taps on the kitchen lino. Chairs were scraped back. She let them get on with it, switching the kettle on and getting her cup off the stainless steel mug tree.

  “Want one?” she asked over her shoulder, selecting another two cups anyway.

  She made the coffee, and they didn’t say a word. Suited her, she could take the morning ritual for what it always was, her way of dealing with the fact she had a shitload of work ahead of her and the girls to see to. She didn’t count Michael in her list of to-do’s. Hadn’t for yonks. But there was one conversation they should have, the one where she’d tell him how she felt and that they really ought to call it a day. Their relationship wasn’t going anywhere new, she’d known that even before she’d started shagging Robert, but knowing for sure would mean her erotic encounters with the Scottish neighbour had been justified. In a way. Plus, it would give her a reason to tell Michael to fuck off out of it and leave her and the girls in peace.

  She took the coppers’ coffee to the table and went back for hers. Then she sat, where she had yesterday, and faced the two men. They looked tired—probably all that searching for Ted, no doubt—but hey, she was tired. Wasn’t everyone who had a job and kids these days?

  After a lovely sip of coffee, she said, “Come on, then. Out with it.”

  “When did you last see your husband?” Dalter asked.

  Christ… “Yesterday. He gets up earlier than me to go to work so obviously I haven’t seen him today. Why?”

  “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.” Fitzsimmons appeared pained.

  “An accident?” She forced down the knot of dread in her throat.

  “Michael was involved in one this morning.” Dalter grimaced.

  “Oh.” She didn’t know how she felt about that. Their words were divorced from her emotions, meaningless gibberish that had no impact. She waited for pain to come, for a wail to erupt from her mouth, for her to shove her chair backwards and pace the kitchen, grabbing fistfuls of hair and pulling until the strands broke free.

  “I can understand this is a bit of a shock, so if you’d like a moment before I continue . . .” Dalter smiled awkwardly.

  “Oh.” She was supposed to ask if it had been fatal or if he was in hospital and which one. So she could get someone to watch the girls then go to sit by his bedside. She was supposed to ask, if he’d only been injured, how bad it was. She was supposed to ask, if he was dead, whether it had been quick. Instead, oh. Just plain old oh.

  She sipped some more coffee. Watched the coppers watching her. Decided she’d better go through the motions. Tears weren’t forthcoming, and maybe they’d seen many a woman react this way, a nonchalance that hid the storm sloshing within. Except for her there wasn’t even an internal storm. Not a spit of rain let alone thunder.

  “Is he all right?” There, that had sounded okay, hadn’t it?

  There must be something wrong with me. I’m not normal.

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs Blessing.” Fitzsimmons’ grimace matched the one Dalter had given.

  “Oh.” There it was again, that strange little word.

  “I’m afraid it was fatal.” Dalter appeared to be bracing himself, ready to jump up and take hold of her should she dash from her seat and flap around the kitchen. “It would have been instantaneous. Would you like to know the details?”

  “Please.” She drank some more. Nice, that, when it had three sugars. It tasted like the ones Mo made.

  “He ran a stop light. A HGV went into him—err, over him—and dragged his car beneath it for quite a way. It caught fire—”

  “With Michael underneath it,” she finished. “I see.”

  “I’m very sorry, but he’s been killed.”

  She bit her lip. How very wicked that her mind now went straight to whether she’d be able to cope financially without his income until his life insurance paid up. She shook those thoughts away, because they were natural, a mother’s instinct taking over so she could ensure her children would be provided for. She was damned if she’d feel guilty for that.

  “Do you have anyone who could sit with you?” Dalter asked. “There are things you’ll need to do, but they can wait for now. There’s time yet for that. Better to get over the shock first.”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to be with her. What good would sitting do? And as for shock, she wasn’t shocked at all. “I’d rather be by myself, to be honest. I have the girls—they’re still in bed—and I’ll need to tell them, and then there’s work. That has to be done.”

  “Work will probably have to wait, Mrs Blessing.”

  Why did it? Was there some unwritten rule that everyone followed when presented with information like she had been? Did you have to not work on the day you were told your husband was dead? Did you have to have someone come round and sit with you? What, did they think she was denying what had happened by mentioning work, or that she might do something silly to herself if left alone?

  She almost laughed.

  Nerves?

  “Really, I want to be left alone and work. Perhaps that’s my way of coming to terms with this. Everyone’s different, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Fitzsimmons said, “and I’ve seen a reaction like yours before. However, I must stress that grief can take you in a number of ways, and although you may feel fine now, it may suddenly hit you, and if you’re alone—”

  “But I don’t have to follow this advice, do I?”

  “No, but—and I hate to throw this one at you—“

  YET HE’S GOING TO ANYWAY

  “—you have the welfare of your children to consider. What if you fold and they witness it? Having someone here to watch for signs so they can steer your girls away would be of benefit to them.”

  Ah, that old chestnut. Emotional manipulation via her children.

  How very clever.

  How very Michael.

  “What if I had no one?” she said. “What would you do then? Force a liaison officer on me, or whatever they’re called? I don’t want anyone and won’t have anyone here.” She was getting angry. At least that was something other than her couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude. That would please the coppers. Acting like a normal woman in mourning, textbook-style, easier for them to deal with. “I want you to let me know what it is I have to do with regards to viewing his body or whatever, then you can go. I’ll find the rest out for myself. Google is man’s best friend these days. I’m sure there’s something on there that can tell me what I do about the house and everything.
Oh, and I should have asked. How is the HGV driver? I want to know for genuine reasons, really. I don’t blame him or her. Michael ran a stop light, you say?”

  “He’s fine,” Dalter said. “Managed to throw himself from his cab and sustained minor injuries when he landed on the road.”

  “Good. That’s good.” And it was. She wanted to ask who he was so she could—

  Stop that. Don’t even think it.

  Thanking a man for killing your husband simply wasn’t the done thing.

  Shortly after that, the police departed, and Sarah was left in wonderful peace. It wouldn’t be long and the girls would need to get up. Perhaps they should stay home from school today. Sleep oblivious for as long as possible. When they woke she’d tell them as gently as she could, of course she would, but honestly, Michael hadn’t been around much the last couple of years, working all the time, spending none of it with them. They’d already forgotten him in a way, and she suspected it would be the initial shock of her revelation that would stump them a bit, then they’d all move on.

  And life went on for those left behind, it always did, always had. No sense in saying otherwise. Yes, things hurt sometimes and you thought you’d never laugh or smile again, but you did. The dead faded in the memory, you got up just the same every day and dealt with the same shit as you had before, except a person was missing from the equation.

  She switched on her computer and brought up her work email to check for responses to the files she’d sent through yesterday. Opened Excel and the Word data sheet and began the daily grind. Nothing had changed. There was a two-hour period in the evenings where she’d have seen Michael, ships passing in the bloody night and all that jazz, then the next day would be a repeat of the last. Him being there for those two hours with his nose stuck in a book or his attention on the TV, well, she wouldn’t miss it at all.

  Was it wrong to feel relief galloping in?

  She had the urge to dance, to sing, to smile wide.

  There were relatives she ought to tell. There was a funeral to arrange. She’d see to all that after work—she couldn’t be doing with the stress of Michael’s mum wailing down the phone and disturbing what measure of peace Sarah currently had, not if she was verging on giggling her head off.

  Perhaps grief would hit her eventually, who knew? But for now she’d go with what her mind and body dictated.

  So she laughed until her ribs hurt and her face was streaked with tears.

  Then she texted Nora and Robert.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nora had one of those moments where even though she’d read the words, she couldn’t quite believe what they had said.

  Michael dead? What?

  She couldn’t get her head around it. She’d seen him only yesterday, right as rain and, okay, he’d seemed in a bad mood, but Sarah hadn’t texted her anything about that so Nora had assumed it was just one of those things. What had he died of? Was he ill and Sarah hadn’t said? Did he have dodgy blood pressure and he’d had a stroke? Heart attack? Had Sarah bumped him off like she’d said she felt like doing? No, surely not. So many things could have happened to him that her head spun with possibilities. This had to be one of Sarah’s jokes, just something she’d said. A bloody rotten joke if it was, but yes, Sarah was messing about. People said stuff like that all the time: He’s dead when I get hold of him. I’ll bloody kill him when he gets home.

  But it didn’t mean they were dead. Didn’t mean they were actually going to be killed.

  Did it?

  Nora took a deep breath at her front door. She’d been asked to meet Sarah by the fence, but what did you say in these situations? Especially when Sarah had been having it away with Robert. Sarah hadn’t told her—that rankled a bit because they tended to share everything—but Nora understood why it would have been kept secret. This street was a nightmare for rumours, and if word got out, Nora would have got the blame for opening her mouth, even if she hadn’t. And she wouldn’t have, not for something like that. She’d been glad Sarah hadn’t taken her into her confidence. It saved Nora worrying over what she might say if other neighbours brought the affair up. She’d say Sarah hadn’t said a word and that it was just gossip.

  If she stood here any longer, Sarah might think she didn’t care, so Nora opened the door, went outside with her head down, and closed the door.

  Sarah was in their usual spot. She didn’t look wretched as Nora expected, just her usual cheery self. But something was there looming behind the smile, and Nora’s heart contracted, like the pain of death was her own. She ran across the grass to join her friend.

  “Oh, God, Sarah. Are you all right?” That had been a stupid question. It had just popped out, as something people say, and she wished she could take it back. If she opened her mouth to fix it, though, she might say something equally as dumb.

  “You wouldn’t think it, but yes.” Sarah gave one of her big smiles then let out a shuddery breath. “It’s as though it hasn’t happened and he’ll be back later.”

  “Aww, it hasn’t sunk in yet, has it?”

  “Yes. But…”

  “What?” Nora frowned, putting her hand on Sarah’s arm for comfort.

  “You’ll think I’m wicked.”

  “Since when do you care what other people think? Just say it. I’m used to your realism.”

  “Okay. I don’t feel anything but relief. I’m meant to feel bad that a life has been lost, that the father of my children is gone, but I just don’t…don’t give a shit, basically.”

  “Um, wow.” Nora was lost for any more words.

  She’d felt the same when Derek had topped himself, but he’d been a bastard and had deserved to die. Michael hadn’t. As far as Nora could tell, he’d just got himself embroiled in work, making it the one thing he got up for every day instead of his wife and girls. He’d drifted off the path, that was all, and needed a bit of a nudge to get back on the right one.

  What could she say anyway? Yes, she’d expect Sarah to say she didn’t give a shit about someone else, but her own husband? Was she really so into Robert that Michael now failed to feature in her emotions at all? Nora wanted to ask but didn’t dare. That would mean Sarah having to admit to her secret—and it was Sarah’s secret to reveal, no one else’s.

  “Wow indeed.” Sarah sighed. “I keep wondering if tears will come. Like, do I have a delayed reaction or some shit? Or, do I really just not care? It’s weird. I can’t explain it.” She leaned closer. “I haven’t loved him for years. He was just…there, know what I mean? We just bumbled along. Make sense? D’you understand?”

  Yes, it made sense, but no, Nora didn’t understand. Bumbling along—well, she couldn’t imagine the luxury of that in a relationship. All she’d endured was punches, tension, and the constant knowledge that if she didn’t do as Derek asked, she’d pay the consequences. Michael was—had been; he’s dead—such a quiet, unassuming man. She’d imagined him easy to get along with, which had puzzled her regarding the affair, because wasn’t that a good thing, to have a no-hassle marriage?

  The burning question settled on the tip of her tongue.

  Just ask her.

  Nora took a deep breath. “How…um, how did he die?”

  Sarah sniffed. “Got squashed by one of those massive lorries. You know the ones. Eight wheeler. It caught fire.”

  What? What? Nora’s blood ran cold. “Pardon?” She blinked, her mind unable to accept the words, the visual, or Sarah’s nonchalance. Taking another deep breath, she tried to switch her mind to how Sarah would see things—and failed to understand this lack of caring.

  “I know.” Sarah pulled one of her eek faces. “Not something I want to see in my head. Black body and all that. And I don’t have to go and see him like it, thank God. Who in their right mind would want to? He’d be like a pork rib left on the barbeque too long, know what I mean? The police said it would have been quick, the lorry squashing him, but imagine if he wasn’t killed straight off that way and he burnt to death.”


  Nora didn’t want to imagine it. She was having a hard time trying not to think about that. The heat, the pain. “Oh, God…”

  She lifted one hand to her chest as if doing so would stop her feeling sick. Michael, charred, wasn’t a pleasant visual. But it came anyway, filling her mind, a coal-black face with teeth bared in a meth-head’s grin. Eyeballs melted, nothing in the sockets except overcooked brain. She bent over and heaved, once, twice before her recent cup of tea came hurtling back out.

  “Bloody hell, Nora, it isn’t that bad!”

  Nora shook her head. It isn’t that bad? She loved her friend, but this…this dispassion was doing her head in. “Stop,” she managed, then retched once more, evicting bright yellow bile.

  Sarah laughed. “Oh my God, you and your weak stomach. Stop thinking about it.”

  “I can’t…” Nora straightened, faced Sarah again, and looked into her eyes to see if she could detect any sadness.

  There was nothing but the usual Sarah.

  “Grief’s going to smack you so hard when it comes, Sarah. You should be with someone.”

  “No. The police said the same. I don’t want anyone.”

  Sarah’s door opened a little, and a small face peered through the gap topped with bright blonde hair.

  “Shit,” Sarah whispered. “The girls are awake. I need to tell them.”

  Nora was about to say “God help them” but stopped herself. She could only hope Sarah showed consideration when she told her daughters. If she relayed the news the way she’d done with Nora, those poor loves could be scarred for life.

  “Do me a favour,” Sarah said. “Tell the neighbours for me, would you? With Ted gone there’s no one to spread the word, and I don’t want anyone bothering me with their sympathy. Tell them I’m not to be disturbed. Lie if you have to—say that I’m so overcome with grief I can’t stand it.”

  “Okay. Right. I’ll…I’ll let you get on,” Nora said, nodding and reversing. Her heel tapped the side of the path. “Best of luck.”

  She didn’t add that she would be there if Sarah needed her. She didn’t want to be there if this was how Sarah was going to be. Then she chastised herself. They’d been friends for years, bloody years—