Criss Cross

by Caron Allan

  Same day: 10.45am

  How disappointing! Chapley's are full on the date I wanted—some society girl's hen-party that week, and she's taking a large group of pals with her for a few days’ frolics. So I've had to make the booking for next weekend, a whole ten days earlier than I'd anticipated, because that was all they had available until October. I can’t possibly wait that long.

  It will mean some re-jigging, of course, but I don't foresee any serious difficulties. Although it is a bit of a worry—I do so hate to be rushed, I might forget something vital. Of course it will come a bit out of the blue for poor Thomas, but I doubt he'll mind too much—I should think if we have the slightest chance of any half-decent weather, even for an hour, he’ll be straight out onto the golf course anyway, and naturally I shouldn’t go with him, as I don't play. Beastly game, golf, completely pointless. I believe it was Mark Twain who said golf was an excellent way to spoil a nice walk and I must say I quite agree.

  I must stop now, I need to pop to the shops to buy a few…well, just a few items that might come in ‘handy’ on my little trip.

  Same day: 12.50pm

  Gosh! Well I've just got back from shopping and I must say, it's awfully strange—you've absolutely no idea how difficult it is to buy a proper, traditional balaclava in the summer. In the end I had to go to a ski-wear specialist. I'm still not sure that what I've got is suitable or appropriate and it cost a great deal of money. Never mind, it'll probably be all right if I add a silk headsquare or something. I suspect my pashmina will be too long and flowing. And not very break-and-enter-like. Not with that long fringe around the edge and of course, all that silver embroidery and beading.

  And tonight it's drinks at the Pearson-Jones's again. I do hope there's not too much of a crowd, I feel a bit done in. In fact I could have done without having to go out tonight, I need time to formulate an action-plan and double-check I've got everything I need. After all, my special weekend is only a week away. But we'd already promised to attend before I knew I was going to take on this new ‘project’ and I don’t feel I can back out now.

  Sun 1 July—11.30am

  Friday night was a pleasant enough evening, actually. Very pleasant. Only three other couples, in addition to ourselves and the Pearson-Jones’s. Some people called Maybury, quite nice. She was a teensy bit of a fuss-pot, but he was very charming. Then there were the Blairs, I think he is in the same sort of line as Thomas because they talked Portfolios and Hedge Funds all evening—so dull. She talked jam and HRT to Monica all night—so they must be a bit older than the rest of us. The third couple are not married, just 'life-partners' like almost everyone one meets these days. I’m so glad we’re actually married, one feels as though one has a psychological advantage over those who won’t commit. He, Jeremy Patterson, is in Law, but I can't quite remember what sort, and she, Nadina Cooper, is a primary school teacher. Little mousy person, quite timid. I couldn't quite picture her controlling a bunch of six-year-olds, I bet they make mincemeat of her. Well of course I put it a bit more tactfully than that.

  'Yes,' she said, 'of course they can be quite a challenge at that age, but children are such precious little charges, aren’t they? And of course one doesn’t like to discourage them from expressing themselves really freely, I mean, they are Our Future, aren’t they? And of course, one feels oneself to be so privileged to help them embark upon life’s journey of discovery. Just watching them each day, like delicate little blossoms unfolding, it’s really so very special.’

  Of course it is.

  I had to hide a little smile. Really. She seems like a complete ninny to me. Monica caught my eye and it was all I could do not to giggle.

  But I must admit, as Nadina wittered on in excruciating detail with anecdote after anecdote that illustrated just how challenging her precious little charges could be – she did impart one single nugget of useful information. And of course, she doesn’t teach them, she guides them. Obviously. Silly me.

  I had been smiling vaguely at something Thomas had just told one or other of the men, probably Maybury, when just behind me, I heard Nadina speaking to Monica.

  I had been mentally sort of tuning her out for the last half hour or so—one can only take so much complacent wittering—and a little of her certainly goes a long way. She's not particularly bright, and her only interest in life seems to be those little monsters she teaches, so although every so often the conversation was diverted into another topic, no matter what efforts we others went to, somehow she managed to steer us back to school, usually with a phrase such as, 'Well, in my experience at primary school…', or occasionally she varied it with, ‘Speaking as a primary education professional, I remember when…’ or possibly even, 'As one of My Parents was telling me recently at Contact Evening…'

  Stupid woman. She made it sound as if the 25 sets of children’s parents were her own, in addition to the two fools who selfishly begat her. For a moment my mind wandered as I tried to imagine myself with 25 lots of Clarice to deal with. I shuddered and spilt Pinot Grigio down my Miu Miu blouse. Monica offered me a napkin to mop myself up with, then my teeth were set on edge by Nadina's jingly happy voice saying,

  'Of course, My Parents find it so much easier to obtain the more traditional uniform items now that Holt's the outfitters have opened up in town. They stock simply everything, and very reasonably priced, too.'

  'I must make a note,' Mrs Maybury said, and she grabbed her bag and started rummaging for paper and a pencil so she could make a note of the name of the place. Her daughter needed a new blazer for her youngest for the autumn term. As she rummaged she told us the ‘hilarious’ anecdote of how little Neville had ripped the entire right side of his blazer off. Not even Nadina bothered to listen. Of course we all quickly realised that Mrs Maybury was never going to find any paper or pencil in that rather huge and over-full nylon and polyester handbag (from a chain-store, of all places, if I’m not mistaken). Thomas handed her his Mont Blanc, and I ripped out a page from my filofax. Mrs Maybury gushed and blushed and thanked us far more than was necessary and it all became horribly embarrassing.

  But…The point is—I was able to memorise the address myself. I could picture the place. Formerly a knitting and needlework store, it had been empty for more than a year. How nice to know that it had reopened. And what a useful sort of shop to have in our area. I must pop in there tomorrow morning. It is, after all, one’s duty to support local shops as far as possible. Use it or lose it, I always say. LOL.

  Mon 2 July—11.30am

  At the counter there was a short, stout woman hiding behind huge glasses. She was wearing a sensible, serviceable nylon house-coat of a type I haven't seen since I was a child. Even my Mrs H wouldn’t be seen dead in one of those. The salesperson looked as though she had equipped several generations of youngsters for school. And hated all of them.

  'Can I 'elp you?' she asked. The fingers of her right hand were yellow at the tips and she wheezed as she spoke.

  'I would like a balaclava for my son.' I said.

  'Ho yes? In this wevver?'

  'Sorry? Oh, yes. You see, he's lost his, and I need to replace it before the new school term begins.' Why did I feel I needed to explain myself to her? Didn’t she want to sell the bloody things? And anyway, we’ve had a crap summer so far, cold and wet. Today is yet another day of off-and-on-again rain, perfect for balaclava-wearing, one would think.

  But she'd already lost interest in my explanation and had turned away to drag a small pair of steps out and she set them before the far end of the range of deep drawers behind the counter.

  'Colour?' she said. It took me a moment to realise what she meant. I hesitated. Better not ask for black, it might seem suspicious.

  'Navy blue, please.' I said with a bright smile.

  'It would be bleedin’ navy,' she grumbled, 'they're right at the top.' She creaked up another step and hauled open a drawer. I apologised and thanked her.

  She flung a navy-blue item wrapped in cellophane over
her shoulder and it landed on the counter with a plop. She creaked back down the steps and turned back to me, wheezing alarmingly and leaning forward to rest her elbows on the counter, her face bright red.

  'Tha' it?' she asked. Tempting though it was to spend a lot of money in her charming establishment, I confirmed that that was indeed it.

  'Nine’een nine'y-five,' she said. She did not ring it up on a cash register. There was no cash register. I was surprised by the price, especially after what Nadina Cooper had said about reasonable prices. I raised an eyebrow.

  'Nineteen pounds ninety-five?' I queried. It seemed rather a lot just for a balaclava. How do working-class mothers with large families manage?

  'Of course it’s pahnds, it wouldn’t be bleedin’ bananas, would it? That's the price, take it or leave it.' She snapped. For a moment I was tempted to leave it, if only for the pleasure of forcing her to climb back up again and put it away.

  But I slapped down my twenty pounds with a smile and my gracious hostess supplied me with a shiny five pence piece from a drawer under the counter. She made no move to hand me my purchase, still less to put it in a bag or offer me a receipt.

  'Don't I get a bag?' I asked, not very politely, I regret to say, but I was feeling a little cheated out of my customer service quotient. I was more than a little irritated.

  'Nope,' she said. 'That's 'ow I keeps me prices so low.'

  As I left the shop in a huff she yelled after me, 'It's fer the bleedin’ inviroment, yer selfish cow!'

  Can’t wait to hasten back.

  Tues 3 July—9.55am

  I now have everything I need. I'm going to Chapley's on Friday. I’ve booked a few sessions to make the whole thing look like a genuine getaway-experience, but now I look at my programme, I'm wondering how I'm going to be able to fit in popping out to murder my mother-in-law. Hmm. Must think about this a bit more carefully. But the thing is, they have so many attractive treatments. I would hate to miss out and also, essential to maintain cover story, obviously.

  I've got a slot Saturday afternoon. It's the post-lunch, pre-yoga relaxation period. But that only gives me an hour. Will that be enough, do you think? Let's think. According to the Wonderful World-Wide Web, Highgates would be about a twenty to thirty-minute drive from Chapley's, depending on the traffic. Of course, if it's closer to twenty minutes each way that would be perfect. But if there are some hold-ups on the roads, well, I could end up being late for yoga and that might be remarked upon at a later date. One never knows if one is going to be suspected of killing one's mother-in-law. I mean, it would be nice to think that a daughter-in-law would be above suspicion, wouldn't it? Yet sadly, I imagine that today's police officers are trained to suspect everyone. What with the declining moral standards of the country and everything. And they always say one is most likely to be murdered by one’s nearest and dearest, so it could be a problem. Shall have to be really careful!

  Same day—11.25pm

  I've been unable to think about anything else all evening. Thomas said I seemed very far away. And once, halfway through the evening, a sudden panic came over me and I almost reached for the phone to cancel. The more I think about it, it seems such a huge undertaking. Am quite daunted.

  Poor Thomas, I haven't been very attentive. He wanted so much to tell me about his day at work, but I’m afraid my thoughts kept wandering. In the end he put on the television. I tried to make it up to him, so he was somewhat mollified, but it was a real struggle for me, and I had to watch golf with him for over an hour! Besides, poor lamb, it's not as if he does anything interesting at work. I mean, it’s only money, isn’t it?

  Wed 4 July—4.30pm

  I suppose as a matter of course, the police would be bound to say something along the lines of, ‘By the way Madam, where were you on the afternoon in question?' And of course one would respond, 'Why, officer, I was relaxing in my room at Chapley’s Spa', to which they would be sure to reply, 'And can anyone corroborate that statement?' which of course they wouldn't be able to, so I would immediately become Main Suspect.

  Or, one might say, 'Certainly Inspector, I was at my yoga session, with six other people.’ Which would be good as far as that goes. But then the Inspector would pop in and see Amari Oman, and she would say, 'Yes, Mrs Cressida Barker-Powell was in the yoga session, but she missed the first twenty minutes, arriving out of breath and very flustered, and clutching a large holdall she wouldn't let anyone touch. Oh, and there were splashes of what may have been blood on her boot-polished face.’

  Hmm.

  On reflection then, afternoon could be a bit of a washout. Must think about it a bit more over dinner at Le Pierrot.

  Same day: 5.20pm

  What about the Saturday evening? I suppose, if I'm honest, afternoon was not the best choice for committing a crime, especially not something likely to leave me perspiring and possibly even blood-spattered. I'd be bound to be noticed going into or coming out of Clarice’s house, as it would be broad daylight, and I’d be all dressed up like a Goth bank robber. It would surely be not only more appropriate but more convenient to murder someone in the evening?

  Still same day: 6.45pm

  I could have dinner quite early, eating very quickly, and then spend, say, half an hour in the bar chatting and generally being noticed. Then I could either join the ‘Twilight Walk Experience' at ten o'clock, or I could do the 'Our Universe' stargazing thingy in the Auditorium. Or...there's a barbecue slash mixer from nine o'clock until eleven weather permitting. That might be better, because of course, one can put in a brief appearance, slope off to do the dirty deed, then pop back three-quarters of an hour or an hour later, drink in hand, looking a bit tipsy and saying what a lovely time one is having.

  Yes. The more I think about it, the more I become convinced that it is absolutely the best idea. And the beauty of it is, if anyone should wonder where I am, they'll simply assume I'm off chatting with someone else! Simple but effective.

  Ooh I'm so excited! It's lovely to have something really fun to look forward to!

  Argh! Look at the time. Must quickly fling on a gorgeous frock and some face-powder and pop downstairs, the Pearson-Joneses will be here any minute.

  Same night later still, almost 1.30am

  Hmm. Well. Where to begin? What a peculiar evening. I'm just not quite sure what to make of it. Can't seem to get my thoughts straight. I’m either up the proverbial creek with no paddle or everything is okay. It’s all a bit…

  Well it all began with dinner, obviously, which was very pleasant but completely unremarkable.

  After dinner, we came back here for a nightcap and almost immediately the boys went off to look at some fabulous new finance software Thomas has just put on the new computer in his study. I knew we wouldn't see them for hours, so Monica and I went out onto the terrace with our wine and coffee and a lovely big box of Belgian chocolates Monica had brought over.

  We were just sitting and chatting, you know, nothing particularly earth-shattering, but pleasant, you know, just relaxing. I haven't known her for much more than a year, but the more we see of each other—the more I get to know her—the better I like her. She's gentle, caring, like me she’s interested in the 'little' things, like gardening and cooking and family things. She's not just pearls and Prada and charity dinners like most of my other friends. I feel I can really relax with her and simply be myself.

  As I say, we were sitting and chatting. It was already quite late and so the light was beginning to fade, and the solar fairy-lights came on all round the terrace, glowing softly and looking awfully pretty.

  And then Twinkle emerged from the rhododendrons. Twinkle is the ginger tom from further down the lane. Once a dainty little kitten, the name Twinkle had initially seemed quite apt, but due to the good home life he leads at several local houses coupled with lashings of Whiskas he has grown into a hulking great beast, as if in spite of his name, like that boy named Sue. For some reason the horrid thing is always prowling around our garden, and he is definite
ly the most enormous cat I have ever seen. The size of the average corgi, but with longer legs, he's quite intimidating.

  'Oh my God!' said Monica, 'what a bloody great brute of a cat!'

  'I know,' I responded. 'And it makes me laugh to think they named him Twinkle.'

  We began to laugh until we realised Twinkle had deposited something on the lawn. Something large and feathery. Something that still moved, but not in a good way.

  Concerned, we both slapped our glasses down on the little table and ran towards the evil cat which fled at once, leaving his prey behind.

  Close up, the prey was larger than we realised and proved to be a horribly maimed crow. I don’t know how long Twinkle had been playing with it, but it was in a terrible state. One wing was hanging almost off, the few remaining feathers on the other were matted with blood, one leg lay at completely the wrong angle, and the whole of the back and breast of the bird was a mess of bloody bare patches. Its head was almost down on one shoulder.

  I know I gasped. It was such a bloody shock, an almost physical jolt. Instinctively I clapped my hand across my mouth, stifling a cry and I gaped at Monica. She looked every bit as horrified. The bird flopped about on the grass, refusing to simply lie still and die, but trampling on its own tattered wing and leg, the head flopping about all over the place, it was desperate for escape. There was a quick mess of blood on the grass.