by Alex Lake
It would be better if he was dead.
At that point she had no thoughts of killing him herself. At that point she was only thinking that if he fell in front of a bus or tripped into the path of a Tube train it would make it all so much easier.
And then she thought maybe she could push him. Take him hiking somewhere and give him a nudge off a cliff. Or poison him, maybe.
That was when the anger hit. Pushing him in front of a train or off a cliff wasn’t good enough. It would clear up the mess, but it would leave her unsatisfied. She had given him everything and he had treated it like it was nothing and she wanted him to know she had found out. She didn’t want him to die painlessly. She wanted him to die knowing it was her who was doing it, knowing she had figured out what he was and was beating him at his own game and would walk away, free to have the life she wanted.
He would know she had won.
And she had a way to do it.
Henry Bryant. She could use Henry Bryant.
Once she had seen that as an option, there was nothing she could do to avoid the temptation to take it.
But now, the planning was over. The preparation was done. Now the time had come to wield the knife.
She looked at the blade, turned it sideways, imagined plunging it into Alfie’s neck.
Imagined the cops arriving, imagined the questions, imagined DI Wynne wondering whether there was more to this than seemed obvious on the surface.
Went through her explanation. Imagined her future without Alfie.
She’d been through this a thousand times. This was the best thing to do. The fact she was so close to it didn’t change that. Her hesitation was nerves, nothing more. It was perfectly understandable, but it made no difference. She had to do it. She looked at Alfie, took heart from the hatred swelling in her chest.
Then she took the last few steps towards him.
‘Goodbye, you bastard,’ she said.
Street
PC Street knocked on the door. There was no bell and no door knocker, so he rapped hard with his knuckles.
He listened for the sound of footsteps, but there was nothing. He waited for thirty seconds and then knocked again.
After another wait, he spoke into his radio. ‘No one home,’ he said. ‘Apparently.’
He reached out and grabbed the door handle. He turned it, and the door clicked open.
‘I’m in,’ he said. ‘Poor security, leaving it unlocked if no one’s here.’
He stepped inside and walked into a low-ceilinged hallway. The house was very quiet. No voices, no footsteps, no television or radio. It was the quiet of an empty house.
Or a house with occupants who did not want to be found.
To the right there was a door; to the left an opening that led to a living room and the rest of the cottage. He glanced inside; it was empty, but someone had been there recently. There was a mug of tea on the table alongside a book, open and face down.
Behind him, Clifford appeared from – presumably – the back door. ‘No one,’ she said.
They walked through the living room to the staircase. A few yards past it was the kitchen. Street checked it out. It was modern, and expensive-looking, with high-end cabinets and granite worktops. There was a loaf of bread on a cutting board, the serrated bread knife lying next to it. He looked at the knife block. There was a gap where the bread knife went.
And there was a second gap. Another knife was missing. He looked at the slot. It was the biggest on the knife block, the one where a large kitchen knife would have gone.
He walked over and looked in the sink. There was a half-empty bowl of cereal from the morning and a table knife, butter and breadcrumbs on the blade.
But no kitchen knife.
He opened the dishwasher. No kitchen knife there, either.
He looked back at PC Clifford. She was standing in the doorway, and he gestured at the knife block.
‘Missing one,’ he said, quietly. ‘I think we should check out the upstairs.’
Clifford nodded, and they walked towards the stairs. They went up to the landing. At the top they faced four doors. Three were open – two bedrooms and a bathroom – and one was closed.
Street pointed at it.
‘Ready?’ he said, and turned the door handle.
He stepped into the room and froze.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ he said.
Claire
Claire heard the knock on the front door. She raised a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t say anything,’ she whispered. ‘It’s probably some Jehovah’s Witnesses, or something like that. They’ll leave.’
They didn’t. There was another knock. Claire walked to the windows and, taking care to keep out of sight, looked down at the front of the house. She couldn’t see who was at the door, but she could see the car they had come in.
It was a police car.
‘Who is it?’ Alfie said.
She looked at Alfie. If she told him it was the cops, what would he do? Scream and shout to get their attention? Maybe, but then he’d be arrested.
Still, it was better than being killed. ‘Can’t see,’ she replied.
And then they heard the front door open. ‘Is it a burglar?’ Alfie whispered. ‘Knocked on the door to see if anyone’s home, and now they’re robbing the place?’
‘Maybe,’ Claire said.
‘No. If it was a burglar, Carl and Kevin would have seen them and they’d be in here now, sorting it out.’
Claire realized that in a few seconds he was going to figure out the only people Carl and Kevin would let in unchallenged were the cops, and as soon as he did that he would start shouting to get their attention.
She walked quickly to the bed and grabbed one of the pillows. She put it over Alfie’s head and pushed down, hard.
She heard his muffled shouts and felt him turn his face to the side so he could breathe. That was fine; she didn’t want him to die, not with police here. There was no doubt she would be caught then.
She wanted him quiet so they’d leave and she could get on with it.
Except they wouldn’t. If the police were here then they had come for a reason, and that reason must be to do with Alfie. And the only thing she could think of was that they had linked him to Pippa, in which case the whole sorry tale was going to come out anyway. There was no longer any chance of people believing he had been killed by Henry Bryant, no longer any chance of her revenge being private. Everyone was going to know what Alfie had done.
So she was not going to be killing Alfie, after all.
It had been taken out of her hands and, in truth, part of her was glad. As she stood there with the knife, she was not at all certain she could have done it. She wanted her revenge, of course, but she didn’t want to have to kill someone to get it. Would she have killed someone to protect her children, if it was the only option? Yes, she would. But she wasn’t Alfie. She couldn’t take a life in cold blood, purely for her own purposes.
And she didn’t need to. She’d beaten him. Alfie knew it, and that was all the revenge she needed.
She heard footsteps on the stairs. She lifted up the pillow. There was no point worrying about him shouting to the police now. They’d be here in seconds.
He looked at her, his face red and sweating. She put the pillow down and stood up, knife in one hand, handcuffs in the other, and watched as the door opened.
Two cops came in, a man and a woman. It took a second but she recognized the man – he was called Dave, and she’d kissed him once, on a summer evening by Windermere.
He looked from her to Alfie then back to her, his eyes flicking from her face to the handcuffs and the knife.
‘What on earth is going on here?’ he said.
‘She’s trying to kill me!’ Alfie shouted. ‘She’s crazy.’
Claire shook her head. ‘No, I’m not,’ she said. ‘I can explain all this later. But first you need to arrest him. His name is Alfie Daniels, he’s my husband, and he killed Pippa Davies-Hunt.’<
br />
Dave – she’d forgotten his last name – nodded slowly.
‘I think we’ll take you both to the station,’ he said. ‘We can sort this out there.’ He unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt. ‘It’s Claire, right? I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to put these on,’ he said. He looked at the ones she was holding. ‘You’ll need to put yours down. And the knife. At your feet, please, then step slowly towards me, your wrists together.’
Claire put the knife and the handcuffs on the carpet, then walked towards him, her hands extended. The cuffs clicked around them.
‘PC Clifford will take you to the station,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait here with Mr Daniels. We’ll bring him in a separate car.’
‘Thank you,’ Claire said.
She turned for one last look at Alfie. She was disappointed to see that his eyes were closed.
Wynne
Detective Inspector Wynne looked at her phone. It was nearly midnight. On the other side of the table Claire Daniels was cradling a mug of coffee.
‘Thank you for waiting,’ Wynne said. ‘Your father arrived. He’s in the reception area and he’s keen to take you back to the cottage. If you would like to leave, you can, Mrs Daniels.’
‘It’s fine,’ Claire said. ‘I’m happy to tell you everything I know.’
‘He has a lawyer with him. I promised I would ask whether you would like the lawyer present when we talk.’
Claire shook her head. ‘I have no need for a lawyer. I’ve got nothing to hide.’
DI Wynne smiled. ‘Between you and me, I think that’s a wise decision,’ she said. ‘This has been an odd day and a lawyer might complicate things. I’d prefer – and I’m sure you would too – to keep things as simple as possible.’
Claire nodded.
‘I’ve come from talking to Mr Daniels. We have quite a lot of evidence – witnesses, CCTV – placing him with Ms Davies-Hunt on the night she disappeared. We also have footage of them leaving the pub they were in and getting into the vehicle he was using that night. I explained to him that it’s only a matter of time before we learn where he took her, and that things might be easier for him if he was to cooperate with us. He agreed.’
‘So he admitted it? Killing Pippa?’
Wynne nodded. ‘He did. And he told us where to find her body. We’ll attempt retrieval in the morning.’
‘Where did he put it?’
Wynne studied her, not sure this was information she should share, but she decided that after all she had been through, Claire deserved to know.
‘She’s in an abandoned quarry. It’s full of water, and very deep.’
Claire looked away. Wynne saw the pain cross her face. She had witnessed this before: kids finding out their dad was a thief, mothers finding out their sons were rapists. It was a toxic cocktail of betrayal and loss and grief.
‘He’s also claiming that you were planning to kill him.’
Claire didn’t answer. There was a strange, blank expression on her face.
‘I’m sorry,’ Wynne said. ‘I know this must be very difficult.’
‘It is,’ Claire said. ‘But I’ve had a while to come to terms with it. He’ll say anything to save himself.’
‘Can you tell me what happened at the cottage?’
‘We made a plan to trap Henry Bryant.’
‘I heard. Not, Mrs Daniels, a very good idea.’
‘We, or at least I, was desperate. Anyway, it didn’t work. Carl and Kevin – the security guards – were supposed to come. We had a signal arranged. But then Bryant showed up and got in somehow. He texted Alfie and when Alfie arrived he knocked him out and tied him to the bed. He made me sit in the room and watch.’ She shuddered. ‘He said he was going to disembowel Alfie. Then the two police officers arrived and he fled.’
‘Mr Daniels said that Henry Bryant was not at the house. He said you found out about his vasectomy from a doctor, and then found out about his affair, using the alias Henry Bryant, with Pippa Davies-Hunt. He said you were obsessed with having a baby and the shock of these two things drove you over the edge.’
‘But I didn’t know he’d had a vasectomy.’ She leaned forward. ‘Has he had a vasectomy?’
‘So he claims.’
‘The bastard,’ Claire muttered. ‘We were trying for a baby. I was obsessed with it. Looking back, I almost don’t recognize myself, but it was the only thing I could think about. Morning, noon, and night. The longer it went on, trying and not being able to get pregnant, the more I obsessed about it, the more desperate I was for it to happen. And all along he was lying to me.’
Wynne listened, hands in her lap. There had been a time when she had thought she might become a mother and she understood what Claire Daniels was telling her. Finding out that it wasn’t going to happen was a difficult thing to take.
Wynne shifted in her chair. ‘Mr Daniels also told us you were not abducted by Henry Bryant. He says you fabricated the entire episode, including sending the email messages from Bryant. There was never a Henry Bryant at all – at first it was Alfie, and then it was you. After you came back, you started to pretend to have seen him, so he was still a threat, a threat that could eventually kill Alfie.’
‘That would have been poetic justice,’ Claire said. ‘But I’m afraid it’s total rubbish.’
‘I see.’ Wynne drummed her fingers on the tabletop. ‘His story does seem far-fetched, but there is a large question unanswered. Who is the Henry Bryant who abducted you, and who showed up in Cartmel?’
Claire shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I do have a theory, though.’
‘Which is?’
‘When he said he was going to disembowel Alfie, Alfie asked why, and he said revenge. He looked at me and said he was sorry I was caught up in it, but it was the only way.’
Wynne considered what Claire had said. ‘Revenge for what?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Ms Davies-Hunt?’
‘That would be the obvious conclusion.’
‘Yes,’ Wynne said. ‘It would be.’
‘And if it is,’ Claire said, ‘I suspect Bryant is gone for good.’
What she was saying made sense: someone – maybe a friend or relative of Pippa Davies-Hunt – had found out that Henry Bryant was Alfie, and that he had killed Davies-Hunt. He had then used the same tactic to abduct Claire and set this whole thing up.
Which would only have worked if Claire Daniels was on the dating websites, waiting to be found.
That was the one thing that still didn’t add up.
‘Mrs Daniels,’ DI Wynne said, ‘isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that you happened to be looking for an affair just when this person needed you to be?’
Claire nodded, and in her expression Wynne saw a resilience and toughness she had not thought was there.
‘It is,’ she said. ‘But coincidences happen. And what’s the alternative explanation?’
‘The one Mr Daniels gave us.’
‘What jury is going to believe him?’ Claire said. ‘A man who admitted to killing Pippa?’
‘You have a point,’ Wynne said. ‘But that still leaves me looking for the man who abducted you and showed up in Cartmel.’
‘I doubt you’ll find him,’ Claire said. ‘And if you do, I won’t testify against him. I won’t press charges. I’m glad he did what he did. Alfie deserved it. But you can keep searching, if you like.’
Wynne got to her feet. ‘I see. Goodnight, Mrs Daniels. I’ll be in touch. The Crown Prosecution Service will want to talk to you about your husband. But for now, you’re free to go.’
Claire Daniels stood up. She looked Wynne in the eye.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and then she walked out of the room.
Wynne watched her go. It was possible what she said was true. Maybe some friend of Pippa Davies-Hunt was masquerading as Henry Bryant so they could get revenge on Alfie. Maybe they had gone to the lengths of kidnapping Claire to do it, and now they were gone for good.
&n
bsp; She found it hard to swallow.
It was more likely that Alfie – for once – was telling the truth, and Claire has set all of this up. Wynne had no proof of that, and she wasn’t planning on looking for any. In fact, she rather admired Claire, and after all, what crime had been committed? Claire hadn’t hurt anyone. She might have intended to, but she hadn’t, in the end. There was wasting police time, possibly, but it was hardly that much of a waste if it had ended with Alfie being caught.
No, Wynne would leave it as it was. There was no point putting Claire through any more. The press would have a field day if they thought Claire was some sort of avenging Fury. Better to let it die down and fade away.
The only crime that concerned Wynne was Pippa’s murder, and that case was closed. Alfie could go on telling his tale, but nobody would care.
Alfie was finding out, Wynne thought, that Karma really was quite a bitch.
Claire
The foreperson of the jury was a woman in her late fifties. After the jury had settled into their seats, she stood up.
The judge looked at her, his face red, his eyes black. ‘Have you reached a verdict?’
She nodded. ‘We have, your honour. On the charge of murder, we find the defendant’– she paused momentarily, and the quiet in the courtroom deepened – ‘guilty.’
There were other charges – assault, intent to murder, illegal possession of a passport – but it was the murder one that counted. It was the word ‘murder’ that would be on Twitter in seconds.
In the gallery, Claire smiled. It had been a long time coming. At first there had been some awkward questions about Alfie’s claim she hadn’t been abducted at all, but eventually – under pressure from her expensive lawyers – the newspapers accepted her version of events. It was ironic, since this was the one time Alfie was being truthful, and it was her, in the end, who was telling the last lie. Then Alfie’s lawyer had tried every trick in the book– insanity, provocation, statements taken under duress – to drag out the trial. It had taken over a year, but in the end the evidence was incontrovertible.
