Killing Pretties

by Rob Ashman

  She’d been reported missing by her house mate and a phone call to her employer had confirmed she had not been to work either. Malice pressed the bell again. He looked at his watch and considered what else he could be doing right now. Mason Wrigley would be doing his rounds and he was overdue a visit.

  Maybe later I’ll pay…

  A woman answered the door dressed in a bath robe with a towel wrapped around her head. She was in her late twenties and looked mad as hell.

  ‘Yes?’ She flung open the door. Malice glanced at the water pooling around her feet.

  ‘Sorry were you…’

  ‘In the bloody shower, yes.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I’m DS Malice. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions relating to Belinda Garrett,’ he said, flashing his warrant card.

  ‘You pick your times, don’t you?’

  ‘May I…’

  ‘Come in. I’m getting ready for work.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  Malice followed her into the house, managing not to step on the watery footprints left behind on the laminate floor. She showed him into the lounge where he took a seat as she sat opposite, both hands ensuring her modesty stayed intact.

  ‘Can I ask your name?’ Malice asked.

  ‘I’m Jenny Chase. I live with Belinda.’

  ‘Is this your house?’

  ‘No, we rent it. We’ve been housemates a couple of months. I was here first and Belinda moved in early February.’

  ‘You reported her missing...’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. It’s not like her to simply disappear. We’re not close but we get along okay and she’s never done anything like this before. I’m in a rush and need some coffee. Would you like one?’

  ‘Yes, that would be good,’ Malice took out his pocket book and scribbled a few notes. ‘Could she be staying with a friend?’

  ‘She could be, I suppose. But she didn’t say that’s what she was doing.’

  Chase busied herself with mugs in the kitchen while Malice got to his feet and started mooching around. The house was light and modern with stylish furniture.

  ‘Is there a boyfriend on the scene?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Malice screwed his face up.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Chase stuck her turban topped head around the door. ‘Let’s just say she’s a bit of a free spirit.’

  ‘So, there’s no one special?’

  ‘Belinda is not so much looking for Mr or Mrs Right, it’s more like she’s looking for Mr or Mrs Right-now.’

  ‘Mr or Mrs?’

  ‘She likes girls and boys.’

  ‘Do you know any of them?’

  Chase appeared with two hot drinks in one hand and a photograph in the other. Her dressing gown revealing a little more leg than she would have wanted. She handed over a coffee and photograph and tugged at her robe.

  ‘I’ve met a few in the morning and I’ve definitely heard a few at night. But I don’t know any names. This is a recent photograph of her, was taken on a night out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Malice said, raising his mug. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘Saturday morning. She said she was going to meet a friend and she’d be back on Sunday.’

  ‘So that’s Saturday, thirteenth of April?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Who was the friend?’

  ‘No idea. She didn’t talk much about her social life. Do you think something has happened to her?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out. What about family?’

  ‘Never heard her talk about them. She did tell me once that they’d lost touch years ago after a massive argument.’

  ‘What was that about?’

  ‘She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Look, do you mind if I get ready for work?’

  ‘Please, you carry on. Can I take a look at her room?’

  ‘Help yourself. It’s the one on the left at the top of the stairs.’

  Chase returned to the kitchen, took a plastic container from the cupboard and food from the fridge. Malice left his coffee and went upstairs.

  The bedroom was decorated in neutral colours with a double bed, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. A glass topped desk and leather chair sat in the bay window. The room was immaculate. Malice slouched into the chair and began spinning from side to side.

  Tidy girl.

  He wrinkled up his nose as the aroma of two-day old shirt wafted up at him. He got up and started poking around in the drawers. There were clothes and make-up but nothing of interest. A large suitcase was stored on top of the wardrobe, Malice took it down and ran the zip around the edge. It was empty. He pulled his phone from his inside pocket and called a number. A low buzzing noise came from somewhere in the room.

  Malice turned his head to locate the sound. On the floor, by the side of the bed he found the vibrating mobile, plugged into the wall socket. He took out a pen and pressed a button. Seven missed calls.

  Now… why would you do that?

  He shook a plastic bag from his pocket and dropped the phone into it. Crossing to the desk, her laptop was next. He placed it into another bag.

  A waste paper basket sat beside the desk full of discarded paperwork. He emptied the bin onto the floor and waded through it: junk mail, takeaway flyers, a rail receipt and a ton of neon coloured post-its. He laid them out and scanned the scribbled notes: Tommy, deodorant, condoms, Trixy, rent — each one written in heavy black ball point.

  Chase appeared in the doorway dressed in a smart trouser suit and a white blouse. ‘Are you going to be much longer, I have to go?’ She was clutching her coffee cup with both hands.

  ‘What’s with the post-its? I mean, everyone writes themselves reminders now and again but this is…’

  ‘Excessive?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Belinda had a fixation about forgetting things. It was like she was paranoid about it. So every day she wrote herself notes so she’d remember.’

  ‘Why didn’t she write a list and save all this?’ Malice waved his hand across the multi-coloured carpet of squared paper laying on the floor in front of him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Chase shook her head and took a slurp. ‘Sometimes she would stick them on the fridge door because she said it would be more in her face.’

  Malice collected them up and put them into an evidence bag.

  ‘I’ll also take the ones from the fridge if you don’t mind. Did she make a habit of leaving her phone behind when she went out?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘A couple more questions. Does Belinda own a car?’

  ‘No, she doesn’t drive.’

  ‘Can you remember if Belinda took an overnight bag on the day she left?’

  ‘Erm, yes. It was red, I think. One of those cabin-sized bags suitable to use on planes.’ She turned to walk away. ‘I really do need to go now, sorry.’

  ‘Okay, I want a CSI team check out the room. Is it okay if they come round when you’re back tonight?’

  ‘Yup, that’s fine,’ she said over her shoulder.

  Malice got to his feet and looked around. On the desk were three blocks of coloured post-its. He picked up the green one and tilted it to the window so the light caught the surface at an angle. His eyes scanned the paperwork on the floor. He did the same with the orange one. The fluorescent yellow block made him frown and purse his lips. He went downstairs to the kitchen and scanned the coloured squares stuck to the fridge door.

  And… why would you do that?

  Chapter 6

  It was the day I had been waiting for …

  M y name is Damien Kaplan and you could describe me as a bit of a catch: I’m a fabulous conversationalist, smart and funny; I am an accomplished chef, play several musical instruments, speak four languages, own three houses and I’m well sought after as a criminal barrister. But, I have one overwhelming drawback — I’m pig-ugly. There’s no kind way of saying
it: I make Shrek look like a model for Maybelline.

  I’ve always been that way. In my younger years the difference between me and those around me was less noticeable. Then they began to mature into their teenage years, shedding their awkwardness and goofy appearance. Boy-like features were replaced with broad shoulders and square jaws, the girls developed curves and smiles that lit up the room. Everyone was making a beautiful transition — except me.

  Why not me? What’s wrong with me?

  I think, looking back, that was the point when my resentment turned to hate.

  The passage of years has left me with a thicker waistline and an even thicker neck. My receding hairline began to gallop into the distance by the time I hit thirty and the bags under my eyes could hold a weekly family shop. Still, I have good teeth. But then the only person who’s passed comment on them is my dentist.

  After the police investigation into the body parts had run its course mum sold the house for far less than the original asking price. Not that the difference made a dent in the Kaplan finances. Mum wanted shot of the place and would have given it away had the family lawyer not intervened.

  Mum bought a sprawling house in Winchester and I started in a new school. She got a local office job and thrived in her new environment. She flourished in her new life. I didn’t. I was quickly back to square one. No friends and the same vitriolic people roaming around in my head.

  I was enrolled into a top school and it was there I excelled. While everyone else was laying siege to their hormones, I was collecting A* results like confetti at a wedding and getting myself bumped up to the year above for English and History; a move which served to reinforce the general opinion that I was a bit of a weirdo.

  I immersed myself in every after-school activity, so long as it didn’t involve kicking or hitting a ball and soaked it up. Achievement evenings became a procession of ‘And this year, the award goes to Damien Kaplan’. My walk on stage to collect my certificate was always accompanied with a ripple of polite applause, with an undercurrent of ‘Bloody hell, not him again!’. Mum was always beaming with pride, oblivious to the furrowed eyebrows surrounding her.

  The dark thoughts rumbling around in my head were still there but I felt less inclined to bend to their will. The rush of success had the effect of putting a sticking plaster on the gaping wound in my character. And the more success I had, the more I wanted. I was too busy chasing accolades that I was oblivious to mum getting involved with a bloke called Mark. He was nice enough and showed up from time to time to take her out for the evening.

  I left six-form with four A levels, gaining the top grade in every one. Our mantelpiece was so crammed with academic trophies that the end-of-year award had to be consigned to the dining room. I went to Oxford to read Law and moved into digs at Jesus College. Mark came along with mum to move me in and I remember shaking his hand as they bid me goodbye. He then slipped his arm around mum and they walked to the car. I can remember thinking, that’s a little odd, but shoved it to the back of my mind. There were far more interesting things to think about, like … what clubs can I join?

  Freshers’ week was amazing. I signed up for every society I could. It was then I found a new passion – pottery. There was something calming and therapeutic about moulding a creation out of wet clay. While everyone else was busy playing the game of ‘hide the sausage’ – it’s hilarious the way posh kids talk about sex – I was learning about different firing mediums and the effects of different slips and glazes.

  The first term passed in a blur of academic excitement, punctuated by periods of sleep-deprived study. I was in my element. Mum and Mark came to pick me up at the end of term. I didn’t want to leave, the thought of returning to the mundane existence of home weighing heavily on me. That was when the dark friends that occupied my head returned with a vengeance. They were not happy at being ignored. In fact, they were furious.

  One evening mum sat me down and told me she and Mark were in a relationship and he was going to move in. I shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  My mum’s influence in my life had diminished to that of a cameo role, which occurred every now and again then went away. During my first Christmas back at home, the local wood was filling up with animal graves to satisfy my growing psychosis.

  Before I knew it, Christmas was over and I was back in my student accommodation. On the first morning of the new term I remember waking before my alarm and struggling to cram my sadistic friends back into their respective boxes. I needed to focus on the packed itinerary I had planned for the week. After all, being top of the class was addictive.

  The years flew by and I graduated with first class honours. I won yet another prize for academic excellence, as well as receiving an award for a piece of glazed pottery that I had entered in a national competition. I’m not sure which one I was proud of most.

  In the blink of an eye, my time at Oxford had come to an end. I had excelled in criminal law and enrolled on the Bar Professional Training Course immediately afterwards. Twelve months later, and a handful of plaudits in the bag, I took a pupillage with Christie and Parsons — a well-known chamber of barristers based in London. They allowed me to defer the place for a year to join my old university professor and deliver a lecture tour in three European universities – Madrid, Berlin and Utrecht. One semester in each law school.

  I was twenty-two years of age and I jumped at the opportunity. By now my pathological hatred of Pretties had crystallised into an obsession. The rigors of academia no longer kept the demons at bay and the only thing that gave me any respite was when I made pottery.

  The prospect of spending ten weeks in a foreign city excited me. The prospect of repeating the experience three times over made me positively ecstatic. Not because of the opportunities they might bring. But because it was an ideal time to kill my first Pretty.

  Chapter 7

  I open the front door and my senses are assaulted with the aroma of lasagne and garlic bread. The hallway wall to my left is festooned with a collage of photographs, depicting a procession of law practice dinner dances and corporate events; on the wall to my right is an array of similar pictures, arcing their way up the curved staircase. A pictorial representation of our journey to success. Or that’s what Elsa calls them.

  The judge had called an unexpected halt to the proceedings today which allowed me to cancel my hotel and get an earlier train home. I drop my bag next to the coat stand. An evening of pottery awaits and the butterflies in my stomach have been going wild since we left London.

  ‘Hiya, I’m in the kitchen,’ Elsa calls out.

  I follow the gorgeous smell to where she is standing at the worktop preparing green salad in a bowl. She turns her head and flashes me a magic smile. Her blonde hair is piled high on her head and she’s wearing an apron over her dress. I wrap my arms around her and kiss the back of her neck.

  ‘The old duffer must have had enough and needed a lie down,’ I whisper in her ear.

  She spins around, not breaking my embrace and kisses me on the mouth. ‘It’s a lovely surprise, I wasn’t expecting you home tonight,’ she kisses me again. ‘Why don’t you get changed and we can have dinner before you disappear to your shed.’

  ‘I keep telling you it’s not a shed.’ I fake outrage at the suggestion then pat her on the arse and head upstairs. The bed is made up with fresh linen and the duvet cover is smoothed as flat as a billiard table. A quick glance behind the headboard reveals what I already know, the polystyrene blocks are on the floor and the paint is chipped and scuffed.

  I need to think of something else …

  My suit goes on a hanger to join the others in the wardrobe, and I fish a pair of jeans and a stained sweatshirt from a drawer. A faint smell of sulphur wafts towards me, a reminder that they are overdue a wash. I shrug my shoulders and pull them on then go back to the kitchen.

  ‘Here you go,’ Elsa hands me a glass of red wine. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’

  I sit at the big f
armhouse table, cluttered with chopping boards, knives and peelings. ‘Did you have a good time last night?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, it was the best. That Sea Bass was amazing,’ she replies, clearing away the debris and wiping the surface with a cloth.

  ‘I meant Callum.’

  ‘Ah, Callum,’ she breathes his name with a theatrical sigh and dips at the knees.

  ‘I wondered if—’

  Elsa puts her finger to my lips preventing me from finishing the sentence. ‘Are you sulking? Is my husband having a sulk?’

  ‘I just thought…’

  ‘You can have him when I’ve finished. And besides, you’ve not long had someone to play with. Don’t be greedy.’

  She plants a kiss on my lips and forces her tongue into my mouth. I grasp the back of her head and kiss her hard. She pulls away and returns to the oven, opening the door; a puff of steam escapes from the bubbling pot. The garlic bread is next.

  ‘In answer to your question: Callum was great but then I don’t suppose I need to tell you that?’

  ‘No you don’t. What time did he leave?’

  ‘About one o’clock this afternoon.’

  Elsa puts the hot dishes on table mats and hands me a serving spoon. I dig out a slab of lasagne and put two pieces of bread on my plate. My fingers dance against the hot, garlicky covered loveliness.

  ‘Cheers!’ Elsa holds up her glass. ‘Here’s to early finishes.’

  Our glasses chink together.

  ‘To coming home early to a sensational wife.’

  Dinner is delicious and the conversation flows freely. I wolf down the food and we polish off the bottle of wine, then I gather my plate to put it into the dishwasher.

  ‘I’ll sort that,’ Elsa says. ‘You go and have fun.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I rise from the table and run my hand across her shoulders.

  ‘Do you want sex tonight?’ Elsa chirps.

  ‘Oh, umm…’

  ‘Thought you might like a little treat after your disappointment of last night.’

  ‘I have to catch an early train in the morning, so…’