Killing Pretties

by Rob Ashman

‘Would you like to fuck my wife?’

  ‘Yes… yes, I would. That is, if you’re…’

  The look in his eyes was unmistakeable.

  It was the same as Antonio.

  This was a true Pretty.

  Game on.

  Chapter 19

  I ’m sitting in the kitchen trying to work while Callum is banging away at Elsa like a jackhammer on steroids; the headboard is bouncing off the bedroom wall. I look at the clock. In five minutes they will have been at it for two hours.

  Earlier, when I closed the door to the lounge, it wasn’t long before the sound of Elsa panting and moaning filled the house. I sat on the floor outside the door and listened to Callum’s athletic abilities whip my wife into a frenzy. After a while, it stopped and I could hear Elsa talking. She mentioned the word bedroom and I scarpered into the kitchen. Sure enough the pair of them came into the hallway, Elsa leading him by the hand. She was still dressed in her stockings and basque while he was naked from the waist down, the tail of his white shirt covering his arse.

  He only had eyes for her as they walked up the stairs but Elsa looked over the banister in my direction and sucked on her finger. My cock almost burst in my pants.

  Now I’m trying to focus on writing my closing arguments for the Bairstow case and it’s not going well. I get up from the table to make myself a coffee and it all goes quiet. The bang, bang, bang is replaced with the sound of birds outside. I switch on the kettle and allow it to boil.

  Elsa appears next to me.

  ‘Wasn’t expecting you?’ I say.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting it either.’ Elsa is dressed in the silk gown which she had discarded in the lounge. ‘You making coffee?’

  ‘Yeah, you want some?’

  ‘No.’ Elsa hugs me from behind, her arms wrapped around my chest. ‘He’s asleep.’

  ‘Sorry, who?’

  ‘Callum, he’s fallen asleep. I guess the exertions of last night must have caught up with him.’

  I turn on the spot to face her, still in her embrace.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  I kiss her on the forehead.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘I’m doing some work but it can wait. Why?’

  ‘Callum might have finished but I haven’t.’ She drops her hand and rubs the front of my trousers, kissing me hard. I can taste him on her lips.

  ‘What do you…?’

  Elsa pulls away, turns the chair around and sits down, facing me. She slips the gown from her shoulders to reveal her naked breasts and opens her legs. I fumble with the button on my trousers.

  ‘No, no, no,’ she leans forward and grasps my hands, pulling me to the floor. I sink to my knees.

  ‘That’s better,’ she whispers. ‘And when we’re done, he’s all yours.’

  Chapter 20

  M alice kept his face dead-pan despite the fact that his brain was screaming the word, Campbell?

  ‘When was the last time the Campbell family stayed with you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll take a look,’ said Robins as she settled herself behind the computer screen. ‘They were here three weeks ago; arrived on Saturday twenty-third of March and checked out on Sunday. It was the usual arrangements — two double rooms with an adjoining door.’

  ‘What do they do when they’re with you?’ asked Pietersen.

  ‘They pretty much keep themselves to themselves. They order room service of oysters and champagne and also have dinner taken to their rooms. I think they run a family business and this is their way of getting together.’

  ‘How often have they stayed here?’ asked Malice.

  ‘I can check back in our records but I reckon it would be around half a dozen times in the last six months.’

  ‘Can we have a printout of the bill for their last stay?’

  ‘Sure.’ Robbins shuffled the mouse around and a printer under the desk spewed out three sheets of paper. ‘Mr Campbell settles the account for both rooms.’ She tapped the papers on the desk to straighten the edges and handed them to Pietersen.

  ‘How would you describe them?’ asked Malice.

  A man wheeling a suitcase came into reception and leaned against the reception desk.

  ‘Do you mind if we continue this discussion in the library?’ Robbins glanced over at the new arrival. ‘Someone will be with your shortly, sir.’ The man with the suitcase nodded and pulled out his wallet. David Merchant appeared with his customary smile.

  Robbins led the way across reception through a well-appointed bar area into a wood-panelled room crammed to the ceiling with books. The other two following behind her.

  ‘A library!’ Malice mouthed to Pietersen.

  ‘How much?’ she mouthed back pointing to the figure in the bottom right hand corner of the bill. Malice’s eyes widened.

  ‘Sorry about that. This is more private,’ Robbins settled herself into a comfortable chair and the other two sat opposite.

  ‘I asked you what the Campbell family are like?’ repeated Malice.

  ‘All three are lovely, very personable. They always take time to speak with the staff, you would never believe how rude some people can be. They think that just because—’

  ‘Can you tell us about more about them, Anna?’ Pietersen did the necessary.

  ‘The daughter is slim and attractive, maybe mid to late twenties. She tends to arrive first. She always has room 12 and her parents are in their late forties I would guess. She is very glamorous and he is…’

  ‘He’s what Anna?’ Pietersen asked.

  ‘Well… not glamorous.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I suppose you would call him plain.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘What I mean is you would never put them together as a couple.’

  Bloody hell Anna, put your claws away.

  ‘And you think that’s odd?’ Malice asked.

  ‘I’ve been in this game a long time and couples tend to complement each other in the looks department. But these two are poles apart.’

  ‘What else can you tell us about them?’ Malice was keen to move things along.

  ‘I don’t know what else to say. They are lovely guests.’

  ‘How does Mr Campbell settle the bill?’

  ‘He always pays cash.’

  ‘Cash? Isn’t that a little unusual?’

  ‘Yes it is, but we cater for everyone here. When we have foreign guests, they often pay with cash.’

  ‘How do they make a booking? I mean if it’s over the internet you would need to guarantee the booking with a credit card, similarly if you ring up.’

  ‘Mr Campbell calls the hotel and I make the booking for him.’

  ‘How does he secure the room?’

  ‘There is no need for that. I know Mr Campbell.’

  ‘How did he make the first booking with you… presumably at that time you didn’t know him?’

  ‘He came into the hotel and made the booking there and then. He paid for his stay in advance.’

  ‘In cash?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘How do they arrive at the hotel,’ asked Pietersen looking at the bill.

  ‘The daughter arrives by cab.’

  ‘There is a room charge here for a taxi. What was that for?’ Pietersen asked.

  ‘Let me see,’ Robbins reached over and took the bill. ‘Ah, yes, this is to take her back to the train station. Mr Campbell always insists on everything being charged to the room.’

  ‘But under normal circumstances you would take a swipe of someone’s card to allow them to charge items to their room, in case they do a runner,’ Malice said.

  ‘That is a practice in other hotels but we don’t have guests who would do a runner,’ Robbins shifted in her chair.

  ‘Do you have CCTV on site,’ asked Pietersen.

  ‘Yes we have it in the grounds but only in certain areas inside the hotel.
’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘We like to maintain a certain… how shall I say, level of privacy.’

  ‘Do you have it in reception?’

  ‘No, we don’t.’

  ‘Can we get a copy of your CCTV footage for the Saturday and Sunday when the Campbells were staying here?’

  ‘Erm, yes. I can organise that.’

  ‘How do the parents arrive?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Robbins was rubbing her hands together in her lap.

  ‘You’re not sure?’ asked Pietersen.

  ‘That’s right. I’m not sure.’

  ‘Please excuse me for being blunt,’ Pietersen leaned forwards. ‘But you know the food they order from room service; how they like to have dinner served; the fact that the daughter travels to and from the hotel in a taxi and that they always settle their bill with cash. So, it seems a little odd to me that you don’t know how they arrive at your hotel.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Robbins kept looking at the door.

  ‘Anna, on the bill there is a space marked vehicle registration. It’s blank, which would suggest Mr and Mrs Campbell don’t arrive by car. Do they arrive by taxi as well?’

  ‘I don’t know. Now if you don’t mind I—’

  ‘If they did, there would be a second item on the bill for another taxi. You said yourself Mr Campbell charges everything to his room. So, where is it?’

  ‘You look uncomfortable with my colleague’s line of questioning, Anna,’ Malice said, sitting back in his chair.

  ‘I really must get on.’ Robbins got to her feet.

  ‘Do you run them back and forth to the station? Do you pick them up and bring them to the hotel and take them back on the Sunday?’ said Malice.

  ‘That’s… that’s…’

  ‘What will we see when we look at the CCTV, Anna?’

  ‘Nothing, you’ll see nothing,’ Robbins said with a quiver in her voice.

  ‘That’s right because you know where the cameras are, don’t you?’ Malice could smell blood. Robbins was rooted to the spot.

  ‘If we dust the inside of your car, are we going to find the prints of Mr and Mrs Campbell?’ Pietersen asked. Malice flashed her a sideways glance.

  ‘I could get into trouble. I could lose my job.’ Robbins flopped into the chair and put her head in her hands.

  ‘That depends, Anna. All we want to know is how do Mr and Mrs Campbell arrive and depart from the hotel?’

  ‘I pick them up from the train station. Mrs Campbell has a phobia about taxis and they asked me if I could provide the service. At first I said no, but Mr Campbell was very persuasive.’

  ‘How much does he pay you?’

  ‘One hundred pounds.’

  ‘For the round trip?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One hundred pounds for a twenty quid taxi ride. Doesn’t that strike you as unusual?’ asked Malice.

  Robbins said nothing.

  ‘Did he make that arrangement with you when he first made a booking?’ asked Pietersen.

  Robbins stared at the floor.

  ‘Did he slip you a goodwill payment upfront for you to play chauffeur?’ asked Malice.

  ‘Yes, he did. He said his wife couldn’t ride in a cab and he wanted me to help. They are generous guests and we like having them to stay,’ Robbins was red in the face.

  ‘I bet you do, Anna, I bet you do.’

  Chapter 21

  It was the day Christian came to visit…

  I f killing my first Pretty was an opportunistic affair, then the months leading up to killing my second were like waiting for Christmas. I had taken time off work to make good the preparations and after five weeks of hard graft, I was ready. My pottery workshop now boasted a hidden extension with new drains in the floor that ran directly to the cesspit, as well as a much bigger walk-in kiln. The freezer was in place and we were all systems go.

  Christian had availed himself of Elsa’s charms on four occasions; each time we met at the same hotel, each time we went through the same roleplay in the bar. Elsa would sit on the bar stool while Christian sat in the armchair getting an eyeful of what was to come.

  Elsa was brazen. On two occasions, even though there were other people around, it made no difference. She gave Christian and anyone else who cared to look a floorshow. It reminded me of our times in Amsterdam. She said it heightened the anticipation.

  When it was time for me to arrive at the bar, we went through the same routine of me offering him a drink and Elsa insisted that I utter the words, ‘Will you fuck my wife, Christian.’ To which he would answer, ‘Gladly.’

  When I wasn’t working or listening to my wife have sex with other men, I could be found in my workshop, creating masterpieces in clay. I had entered a regional pottery competition with high hopes of winning. I’d made a Victorian-style jug and wash basin and was delighted with the results. The winners were going to be announced at a special event which was held in Bath and I was determined to go. Elsa had made other plans so I went on my own.

  The event took place in the great hall of a civic building. It was a spectacular venue with high, decorative ceilings and ornate chandeliers. I mingled with the other competitors and judges, exchanging pottery anecdotes and discussing the latest techniques. I was in my element.

  When the time came to judge the submissions, us competitors had to retire to another room to drink more fizz and talk about all things pottery.

  We were called back into the room once their deliberations were complete to find rosettes placed next to the winning pieces. I was stunned to find my masterpiece had been unplaced.

  How could that be?

  I convinced myself that the judges had somehow missed my work and made a beeline for one of the panel judges who I knew from a previous competition.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you’ve viewed every piece in the Victorian category?’

  ‘Yes, pretty sure.’

  ‘So you’re not completely sure.’

  ‘No that’s not what I meant. We’ve looked at every piece in the category.’

  ‘Have you looked at this one?’ I pointed mine out to her.

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘Can you tell me why it hasn’t placed?’

  ‘It is a nice enough design and the production is excellent but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘It’s a little on the plain side.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s a bit… dull.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘To put it bluntly, it’s not pretty.’

  I picked up my jug and basin and left. The disappointment was all consuming. What the hell did they mean by ‘not pretty’. By the time I arrived home my frustration had turned to rage. Elsa opened the front door when she heard my car crunching the gravel on the driveway.

  ‘Well, how did you get on?’ she chirped.

  I got out of the car, yanked the jug from the back seat and hurled it to the floor. Shards of pottery burst into the air. The basin closely followed.

  ‘They said they weren’t fucking pretty enough.’

  Elsa screamed and hid from the flying debris. I kicked a large piece of pot off the drive onto the lawn and stamped around, trying to obliterate what was left. Elsa ran out and grabbed hold of me.

  ‘Stop it, Damien. Stop it.’

  The drive was covered in fragments of glazed pottery. I hung onto her shoulders and wept.

  ‘I thought that was my best work and… and…’

  ‘Come inside and we can talk about it.’

  I allowed myself to be taken into the house. I was distraught. Elsa sat me down in the kitchen and poured a large whiskey into a glass, setting it in front of me.

  ‘Drink this.’

  ‘Are they fucking blind?’ I yelled at no one.

  ‘There, there.’ Elsa sat beside me and cradled my head against her chest.

  ‘Don’t they recognise talent when they see it?’ I pulled myself away.
/>   ‘Drink.’

  Elsa held up the glass and I sank it in one.

  ‘Fucking idiots!’

  Elsa patted and smoothed my back like a child recovering from a tantrum. After a while I could feel the warming effects of the liquor easing my anger.

  ‘Do you feel better now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, a little. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she replenished my glass and kissed me on the cheek

  ‘I had such high hopes for that competition.’

  ‘Next time. You’ll nail it next time.’

  ‘Fucking idiots.’

  ‘Yes they are,’ Elsa rocked me back and forth, my head buried in her chest.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said pulling myself away from her embrace. ‘I know how I can make my work prettier. It’s been staring me in the face all along.’

  ‘How are you going to do that?’

  ‘I need to think. It could work.’

  ‘That’s great, honey. I have good news if you’d like to hear it?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m bored with him. He’s all yours.’

  The next time I saw Christian, he arrived at our home with a bottle of wine for me and bunch of flowers for Elsa. She was giddy with excitement, delighted we were moving on to the next phase. I had made a new Victorian water jug and wash basin to mark the occasion and they were resting in the proving room.

  The planning had to be precise. Elsa had wrapped Christian up in an elaborate cobweb of intrigue and lies designed to keep him off balance and compliant. She’d weaved a narrative that convinced him I was getting paranoid at the prospect of their relationship being discovered. I was a public figure and a revelation that my wife was shagging another man would ruin my reputation. She told him I was thinking of calling a halt to their affair.

  Elsa told him that was the last thing she wanted. It turned out — unsurprisingly — he felt the same. Unless he complied with her demands, it was all over. I watched her manipulate him over the phone, a performance worthy of an Oscar. He was putty in her hands. He didn’t stand a chance.

  The arrangements were simple: She swore him to secrecy and told him that on their next visit he must switch off his mobile phone to avoid the possibility of being tracked. He had to travel on A-roads to avoid motorway cameras and only use cash if he purchased anything.