‘What’s up?’ Charlie asked him.
‘That’s Connie Bowskill’s Audi,’ he said, pointing. ‘Shit. She’s in there too.’
Simon was out of the car within seconds, running.
*
POLICE EXHIBIT REF: CB13345/432/28IG
11BG worth 1.2/1.3 million
Minimum deposit £400,000? (Nulli? C sick leave – stress)
Borrow 800,000/900,000
Life insurance for full amount borrowed
Acc/su – policy pays out full amount
(Check su clause – may have to be acc)
1.2 mil house for 400 k
OR
1 mil/900k if price reduced?
As above, but min depos 250 k
1.2 mil house for 250 k – not bad!
Same house, but much bigger garden, southfacing – more desirable – OBVIOUS AND UNDENIABLE – MEANT TO BE!!
(Officially acc – poss su, unprovable. Guilt at 4 murders – obsessed with Gils since Pardoner 2003. Wanted 11 for view of 12, to watch them? PARANOID AND DELUSIONAL SINCE JAN, WHEN PUT ADDRESS IN SATNAV!! 11BG, 12BG – say her joke all along.)
Viewing (Frenches? Talbots?) Find SG in – stalker has gone step further, put house up for sale
Woman who met and gave keys – describe C
Letters, stuff through letterbox?
Nitromose car?
Virtual tour – Gil bodies? Something else?
Advise 1 mil/900 v quick sale
Need C passport for buy/sell
C DNA AT 12
Police – C access 12 using key found at 11 – easy
HOW GOT KEY TO 11? Important?
Suicide understandable – avoid punishment?
Rent out 11, live at Pardoner – 11 rent 2500 pcm
LANCING DAMISZ, UNIT 3 WELLINGTON COURT
CAMBRIDGE CB5 6EX, 01223-313300
Chapter 27
Saturday 24 July 2010
I can’t move or speak. There’s parcel tape wrapped round my head, sealing my mouth shut. Once he’d done that, Kit taped my wrists together behind my back and forced me down on the floor. There might have been a chance for me to get away, but I didn’t take it, if there was, and now I’m going to die. When Kit’s ready. And if not being dead gets any worse than it is now, I know how to speed up the process – all I have to do is let myself cry. I’d be unable to breathe within minutes, and I’d suffocate.
‘I didn’t want to kill them, Con.’ He has to raise his voice to make himself heard over the noise of the flies. ‘Four lives, two of them kids. It wasn’t an easy decision, not until I thought about us. Our future children. This is the home our children deserve.’
I don’t want to listen, but I force myself. I wanted to share Kit’s reality. This is Kit’s reality. This man, this monster, is my husband. I loved him. I married him.
‘I didn’t want to kill Jackie either,’ he says. ‘She wasn’t judgemental when I told her what I’d done. She didn’t panic like I did. The wrapping was her idea, to keep the smell to a minimum. Airtight, she said.’ He stops, looks over at the bed. ‘I don’t know why the flies came,’ he says vaguely. ‘Do you think maybe they’re not airtight?’
Looking at me, he remembers the tape that’s preventing me from answering him. Remembers that he was in the middle of telling me a story, about Jackie not panicking. ‘She went into their emails,’ he says. ‘Contacted their works saying there was a family emergency, that they wouldn’t be in for a while. And the school. She kept their mobiles charged, monitored them – when texts arrived from friends and family, she’d text back, pretending to be . . .’ His body judders, as if a current’s running through it. ‘Pretending to be Elise Gilpatrick,’ he says eventually. The name of the woman he killed for no reason.
‘I was falling apart, Con. It was Jackie who kept me in one piece, Jackie who had a plan. I went along with it because I was a coward, and because . . . how could I not help her, after everything she’d done for me?’
I flinch as he lunges at me, starts scratching at the tape on my mouth. ‘Why don’t you say something?’ he hisses in my face. His fingernails dig into my skin. Apart from hurting me, it has no effect. Kit picks up the knife, looks at it, then puts it down again and leaves the room. I count. Seven seconds later, he’s back with a pair of nail scissors. I keep as still as I can as he hacks at the tape, but he’s shaking too hard and ends up cutting my mouth. ‘Sorry,’ he breathes, sweat running down his face and neck.
A few more seconds and he’s cut all the way through the tape – I can speak again, if I want to. Blood trickles down my chin. My new cuts start to throb, gathering more pain with each beat.
Kit stands back and stares at me. ‘Say something,’ he orders.
I shouldn’t allow myself to hope, but the hope is there, allowed or not. He taped my mouth shut, then cut the tape away. It’s a clear reversal, one that allows me to believe that he might put his intention to kill me into reverse as well. ‘What did Jackie want to do to me?’ I ask. ‘Did she want you to kill me too?’
‘No. She’d have done it herself. She knew I’d never be able to do it.’
I’d never be able to do it. I’d never be able to do it. I cling to those words.
‘A lot had to happen before she could kill you,’ Kit says. ‘She had to set it all up first, so that you’d be blamed for the . . .’ He glances over at the bed. ‘The others, you know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how she could think clearly, but she did. Do you want to see?’
‘See?’ I repeat blankly.
Kit smiles, and for a moment I’m dropped back into our old life together, our normal life. I’ve seen this smile many times before: when Kit makes a joke that he’s pleased with, when I say something that impresses him. ‘I’m offering you proof,’ he says. His smile has vanished. His voice is harsh.
‘Show me,’ I say.
Kit nods, turns his back on me. I hear him run downstairs. When he comes back, he’s holding a battered sheet of white A4 paper. There’s spidery handwriting on it. Jackie’s handwriting. Kit holds it in front of my face. I read it three or four times. I shouldn’t be able to understand. I try pretending I don’t, but it doesn’t work. I know immediately what Jackie meant when she wrote these words.
I feel defiled, claustrophobic, as if I’m trapped inside her warped mind, unable to escape the tainted swirl of her thoughts. I have no choice but to admit that this is real, since it’s here in front of me. All the same, I can’t believe it. Until four days ago, I had no idea Jackie Napier existed.
I’m glad she’s dead.
‘None of it was my idea,’ says Kit.
‘You killed the Gilpatricks.’
He cranes his head away from me, as if I’ve tried to hit him. ‘That wasn’t an idea. It wasn’t planned, it . . . Jackie was the planner, not me.’ He lets go of the paper. It falls to the floor. ‘She seemed to be able to anticipate everything, and I couldn’t even see the next step.’
Did she anticipate you strangling her?
‘She predicted that you wouldn’t be able to stay away from Cambridge, after you found the address in the SatNav,’ Kit goes on. ‘I didn’t believe her – I thought there was no way you’d travel all that way in the hope of catching me out. Jackie laughed when I said that. Called me a naïve idiot. She said she’d prove it to me: she took two weeks off work and staked out Bentley Grove. Soon as the Gilpatricks left in the morning, in she’d go to number 12, to wait for you. She knew what you looked like – she must have spent hours on Nulli’s website, staring at your photograph. She envied you like crazy.’
Envied me. Who wouldn’t want to be married to a deranged killer?
‘Two Fridays running, she saw you. Then we knew – even I worked it out. Friday was the day you’d go, if you went at all. Mondays and Wednesdays there was a chance I’d be at home, Tuesdays and Thursdays you were at Monk & Sons. Friday was your only free day when I was in London for sure.’
I nod, trying to ignore the sick feeling spr
eading through me. How does Kit expect me to respond?
‘Sometimes Jackie followed you,’ he says. ‘To Addenbrooke’s, or into town. I told her she shouldn’t take the risk – I couldn’t stand the thought of you noticing her and confronting her in case she gave something away, but she just laughed at me. “I only get noticed when I want to,” she said.’
‘She was wrong,’ I say, shocked by the hoarse sound of my own voice. ‘I knew someone was following me.’
I mentioned it to Alice when I first went to see her – that once or twice, in Cambridge, I’d heard footsteps behind me. She prescribed me a remedy for that precise delusion: Crotalus Cascavella.
Wrong.
I didn’t need a brown bottle full of something dissolved in water. I needed Jackie Napier to die.
Obsessed with Gils since Pardoner 2003. There’s only one thing that can mean.
‘The Gilpatricks bought 18 Pardoner Lane, didn’t they?’ I say. ‘When you . . . when we wanted it.’
I don’t need an answer – I can see it in Kit’s face.
‘You pretended you didn’t want it any more, blamed it on my . . . problems. You must have loathed the Gilpatricks. And then . . . what, they moved? They bought 12 Bentley Grove, and . . .’
Rent out 11, live at Pardoner.
‘Jackie. Jackie bought 18 Pardoner Lane.’ I’m still working it out as I say it. ‘You probably gave her some of the money.’
‘How could I do that?’ Kit says angrily. ‘I don’t have any money that you don’t know about.’
‘I was too much of a mess to move away from my family, but that wasn’t a problem for you,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘You could live in Cambridge with Jackie. The two of you had been waiting for 18 Pardoner Lane to come up for sale again, but when it did, you didn’t want it any more – Jackie did, enough to buy it, but you . . .’ Yes. It has to be. ‘You wanted whatever house the Gilpatricks wanted, and that wasn’t 18 Pardoner Lane any more – it was 12 Bentley Grove.’
Disjointed ideas clash in my mind. What did Kit say about Jackie waiting in number 12, watching for me, knowing I would come looking? Soon as the Gilpatricks left in the morning . . . So they weren’t dead at that point. And if Kit hadn’t killed them yet . . . ‘How did Jackie get the keys to this house?’ I ask. ‘Was she . . . ?’ Her pink denim jacket, a Lancing Damisz key-ring in the pocket. Her black spider handwriting, on Lancing Damisz paper. ‘She was an estate agent, wasn’t she? Did you meet her in 2003? Did she sell this house to the Gilpatricks?’
Kit doesn’t answer. He looks away.
‘She did, didn’t she? And she kept a copy of the front door key.’
‘We used to meet here, when they were out,’ Kit mutters, eyes down. ‘It was a stupid game we played, but it was better than the real life she wanted us to have together. I couldn’t bring myself to set foot in the Pardoner Lane house, not once she’d bought it. She wanted me to move in there with her, but how could I? I lived in Little Holling, with you – at Melrose Cottage.’ He says it as if I don’t know already – as if I’m a stranger he’s introducing himself to. Telling me about his life. ‘I never loved Jackie. The one thing I knew for sure was that I wanted to live with you, wherever I lived but . . . the game had gone too far by then. And . . . it was more than a game. I wanted . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘I didn’t see why the Gilpatricks should have what I wanted. That was when it all started to go wrong, when they bought our house.’
I wait.
‘Jackie and I had terrible rows,’ Kit goes on eventually, so quietly I can barely hear him. ‘I didn’t really want this place . . .’ he gestures around him ‘. . . but it was easier to pretend I did than admit the truth. Jackie knew it was bullshit – she went on and on at me, telling me the Gilpatricks wouldn’t be selling anytime soon, that this was their forever home, trying to get me to admit that I’d stop wanting it anyway as soon as I could have it, even if they did decide to move again. She was furious with me – how could I have let her buy 18 Pardoner Lane if I wasn’t planning to live there with her? The rows got worse and worse, and then . . .’ He shakes his head.
This time I can’t guess. I have to ask. ‘Then what?’
‘The SatNav thing happened. And Jackie decided it was destiny – the solution to all our problems.’
‘How? How, Kit?’
‘Number 11,’ he whispers, folding his hands into a tight ball. ‘Everything pointed to it. Eleven was what we called this house – you remember the old joke?’
I bite my lip to stop myself from screaming.
‘There were keys in a bowl in the kitchen with a label on that said “Selina, no. 11”, and after the SatNav disaster, you thought I was shacked up with someone at number 11 – nothing I said could persuade you it wasn’t true. One day Jackie asked me if I knew how much bigger number 11’s garden was than the garden here.’ Kit jerks his head in the direction of the window. ‘I didn’t know what she was talking about. She had this strange expression on her face. It scared me. I realised then: she was halfway to being mad.’
‘She’d used the keys from the kitchen and let herself into number 11,’ I say.
He nods. ‘She wanted to check out the house where I was supposedly leading my double life. She thought it was hilarious.’
I glance down at the sheet of paper on the floor, remembering Jackie’s words: Same house, but much bigger garden, southfacing – more desirable – OBVIOUS AND UNDENIABLE – MEANT TO BE!!
‘She thought she’d found the perfect solution.’ Kit shrugs. ‘We could buy a house almost identical to the Gilpatricks’ but better, on the same street. “You’ll be able to lord it over them,” she said. “All we need to do is persuade this Selina woman to sell.” She started talking about putting shit through the letterbox, Nitromosing her car . . . I didn’t even know what Nitromose was. I told her not to be ridiculous – even if we could drive the owner out of her home, we’d never be able to afford a house on Bentley Grove, this one or number 11. I was seconds away from telling Jackie I couldn’t go on the way we were when . . .’ He breaks off.
A heavy sense of calm spreads through me, like a drug. I fight the urge to close my eyes. ‘When she explained to you exactly how it could work,’ I finish Kit’s sentence. ‘If I died at the right time, with the right price on my head, then you could afford it. What was her plan? First, get me out of the way at Nulli. All the stress I was under after finding that address in your SatNav – you were supposed to suggest to me that I stop working for a while, hand everything over to you. And then, what, sell Nulli, with Jackie passing herself off as me to sign the relevant papers? She looked like me, superficially – shoulder length dark hair, slim. With my passport, and a solicitor who’d never met me—’
‘I didn’t, though, did I?’ Kit snaps. ‘I never suggested you give up work – everything I did from that moment on was to protect you from this . . . this madwoman I’d got us involved with. You don’t have to believe that, but it’s the truth.’ He lets out a bitter laugh. ‘Jackie accused me of being the crazy one. To her it was so obvious, so simple – we sell Nulli, buy 11 Bentley Grove with a huge mortgage and a whacking great life insurance policy, with her posing as you, then . . .’ Kit covers his face with his hands. Groans.
‘Then kill me, cash in, and get a house worth 1.2 million for two hundred and fifty to four hundred grand, depending on how low Selina Gane was willing to go to get rid of her house quickly,’ I say, aware of the uselessness of my words, wishing they were knives. ‘The house where she’d been persecuted by someone she didn’t know, for no reason that was anything to do with her. So, what did you say? Did you say, “No, I don’t want Connie dead”? Did you say, “I’m going to the police”?’
‘I couldn’t go to the police. I . . . I did my best to stall her by . . .’
I wait.
Kit changes tack. ‘Anyway, her plan wouldn’t have worked,’ he says defensively. ‘Who’d have given us a mortgage for that amount once we’d sold Nulli and had nothing?
’ Is he daring me to call him a liar, or has he forgotten about Melrose Cottage because it suits him to do so? He and Jackie would have got their mortgage – someone would have given it to them, especially if whoever bought Nulli kept Kit on as CEO on some exorbitant salary.
‘I had to pretend to go along with it, pretend we’d do it eventually, once we’d got the details right. Jackie enjoyed the planning. We stopped fighting. Completely. Sometimes I thought – I hoped – that working on the details might keep her happy for ever, that she’d never need to . . . take it any further.’
‘So your aim was to guarantee Jackie’s everlasting happiness?’
‘No! You don’t understand,’ Kit sobs.
‘I do,’ I tell him. ‘I wish I didn’t, but I do.’
I watch as he struggles to compose himself.
‘Jackie could and would have ruined my life if I’d said no. I had to give her something to hold on to. I never loved her, Con. She was more like . . . I don’t know, a colleague I felt I had to be loyal to. She loved me, though – I was in no doubt about that. You know she . . . she cried for nearly two hours after we . . . did the filming.’
Is he talking about the virtual tour?
‘She insisted on wearing my wedding ring to do it – she wouldn’t explain why. Just kept saying it would be funny, but that wasn’t the real reason. If it was funny, why did she go to pieces when I asked for it back afterwards? I felt worse taking that ring off her than I did . . .’ His mouth sets in a line, as if to stop the words escaping: than I did strangling her to death.
Lasting Damage Page 38
