The Couple on Cedar Close

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘I think that maybe I killed Robert,’ she hears the slur in her own voice as Monica is turning to leave the room to fetch her tea and PJs. ‘I think that maybe I just snapped and killed him but I can’t remember because I was so drunk… and the pills… the alcohol mixed with the pills. They’ll know – they tested my blood. I let them test my blood. I wasn’t thinking straight but I just thought… I couldn’t have killed him, could I? My own husband – my Bobby? I loved him, even after everything he’d done… I still loved him, Mon.’

  Laurie hears herself speaking but it’s like she’s already asleep and has slipped into a dream – a foggy, fuzzy, altered state. ‘I thought he didn’t come to the house… but did he? He must’ve. The police say he had a letter from his solicitor, telling me he wanted a divorce and maybe I just… lost it. I… I just can’t remember. Oh God help me, I just can’t remember!’ Laurie feels herself losing consciousness, slipping between light and dark, thoughts looping through her mind on repeat, like a computer glitch.

  ‘I just want to die,’ she says. Is she speaking, or dreaming? Which is it? She isn’t sure. ‘I wish it had been me.’ Her voice is high-pitched, wracked with anguish and emotion, and it doesn’t resemble her own, like it’s coming from far away. ‘There was no break-in they said – that detective said there was no forced entry… nothing taken, nothing stolen… so I just, I just…’ Her head falls back onto the pillow; she’s awake but asleep, trapped in a diabolical twilight somewhere in-between.

  Monica comes to Laurie, sits down on the bed beside her. Takes hold of her gently by the arms and eases her into a full recline. ‘Look, you really need to rest, Lolly.’

  Lolly is her old nickname from when they were young. She hasn’t heard Monica call her that in ages.

  ‘Come on, darling. There, that’s it, just close your eyes, let yourself fall into it… relax… That’s it, just relax… It’s all going to be okay…’

  Eighteen

  Laurie – Winter 2016

  ‘She’s just a colleague, a friend, Laurie; will you give it a rest? I’ve told you at least twice before: we worked together on the Chardonnay shoot, that two-day thing down in Kent. She kept in touch because this business is all about contacts – you know that yourself.’ Robert’s tone is dismissive, which only serves to irritate her more.

  ‘So why is she calling you at 11 p.m. then, Robert? Surely not to discuss business?’ Laurie is standing in the kitchen of their apartment. She’s got a client meeting, an important one, in less than two hours and her nerves are shot to pieces.

  ‘I don’t fucking know!’ he snaps back, ‘ask her! I didn’t take the call, remember?’

  * * *

  They had been enjoying a rare moment of downtime together the previous evening, cuddled up on the sofa watching crap TV and sipping wine, when his phone had rung around 11 p.m. He’d declined the call. It rang again and he repeated the action, this time switching his phone off.

  ‘Who is that?’ she’d asked, feeling she had a right to know. He was her husband after all, and she was curious.

  ‘Melanie Jones.’

  ‘Who’s Melanie Jones?’

  ‘A colleague I worked with a while back, on some wine shoot for a trade mag—’

  ‘Why would she be ringing you at 11 p.m.?’ She sees a flicker of irritation cross his features as she lightly enquires.

  ‘Don’t know, Law, search me.’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer it and find out?’

  ‘Because it’s late, like you said.’

  ‘But isn’t that all the more reason to answer the call?’

  ‘Please, Laurie. I’m not in the mood for the Spanish Inquisition.’

  She’d sat upright. She hated it when he tried to shut her down like this. What was he trying to hide? ‘I’m not giving you the Spanish Inquisition. I’m just asking why a female colleague would be calling you at 11 p.m. and why you wouldn’t answer.’

  He doesn’t take his eyes away from the TV screen. ‘Yes, and I’ve answered both questions. Do you want me to repeat myself?’

  ‘Don’t be so defensive. Why are you being defensive? It’s a perfectly legitimate question.’

  ‘I’m not being defensive. With you it’s always questions, questions, questions. I don’t question you, do I? I don’t grill you every time Jack Dempster dials your number.’

  ‘Yes, but Jack’s my boss. He’s married to Deborah and he doesn’t call me at 11 p.m.’

  ‘That I know of—’

  ‘What does that mean? Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Well, you spend a lot of time with him…’

  She looked at Robert, incredulous. ‘That’s because he’s my boss – I work for him, Robert! Jesus, you’ve known Deb and Jack since… since I got the job, practically.’

  ‘I’ve always thought he had the hots for you myself.’

  She shakes her head, snorts a little. ‘Now you really are being ridiculous.’

  ‘Well, so are you—’

  ‘No I’m not. Jack hasn’t called my phone at 11 p.m., and if he did it would clearly be to discuss work. This… this Melanie woman, you shot with her a few weeks ago for all of two days—’

  ‘I’m tired, Laurie. I’m not doing this. I’m going to bed.’

  She felt anger rise up inside her. ‘Doing what? Talking to me? Your wife? Offering me some kind of explanation as to why a female associate is blowing up your phone late on a Thursday evening?’

  ‘What is it you want me to say, Laurie?’ He sighs wearily, like the conversation is the biggest drag for him. ‘That I’ve been fucking the life out of her since we met behind your back?’

  She had jumped up then, enraged, hurt, upset. ‘Why are you saying that, Robert?’ She’d felt tears coming, the beginning of them pricking her eyes.

  ‘It’s what you’re thinking, clearly,’ he says.

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s not what I’m thinking. Why do you always try to tell me what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Because I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘You don’t!’

  ‘Yes I do, Laurie. It’s written all over you. You don’t trust me, do you? You never really have.’

  ‘That’s not true! I… I just wanted to know why a female colleague was—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know – why she was calling and I’ve told you I don’t know! I’m going to bed.’

  ‘So why switch your phone off?’ Laurie doesn’t want to ask any more questions but she can’t help herself. Her intuition is forcing her to. She does trust Robert, doesn’t she? But she hates the way he is so dismissive of her, how he manages to turn the conversation round so that she feels guilty for asking a question. And she’s still reeling about the ridiculous notion of Jack Dempster, her boss, having the hots for her.

  ‘Because I didn’t want to speak to her, whatever it was she bloody wanted… You’re being paranoid, Laurie, and I’m not into it, okay?’

  ‘Into it? I’m your wife, Robert. I’ve got a right to ask, haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve told you over and over again. What part of I don’t know why she called don’t you understand? Look, I’m tired. Good night.’

  * * *

  Robert had gone to bed, their rare cosy evening together cut short and ruined. Laurie had sat on the sofa for a while after he’d gone to bed, mulling over the conversation in her mind. Had she been unreasonable? Was she being paranoid? Maybe she shouldn’t have asked any questions, just left it alone. They so infrequently got to spend the evening snuggled up on the sofa together and now she’d gone and ruined it by grilling him about some old client. She’d slipped into bed next to him a little time later, hoping they would make love, but he was already asleep.

  Come the morning, Laurie’s thoughts had shifted somewhat. She couldn’t get the niggling feeling out of her head that something was amiss. Robert’s reaction, his defensiveness when she had asked a perfectly innocent question had set off alarm bells. But she was confused; Robert had a way of
twisting things around so as to make her doubt herself. Her main objective was not to upset him. Upsetting Robert meant days of sulking, of the silent treatment, and she couldn’t bear that. But sometimes she just couldn’t stay silent herself, even though she knew that by voicing her concerns, she would be in line for such punishment.

  ‘Look, are we going to ruin the morning as well as a perfectly good evening discussing Melanie Jones?’ Robert pours himself a coffee. He doesn’t ask her if she wants one. ‘Because if we are then I’m out of here.’

  ‘Out of here?’

  Robert rolls his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ, Laurie, you don’t know when to stop, do you? On and on and on and on… Haven’t you got a job to do, something better than standing around all day arguing about some phone conversation that never even took place?’

  Laurie swallows hard, feels the emotion rising within her, stress swelling like yeast, but she stays silent. ‘I’ve got a big meeting with the Italian hoteliers this morning,’ she says quietly, holding back the need to burst into tears.

  ‘With Jack?’ he asks sarcastically.

  ‘Yes, with Jack. And Deborah too, his wife—’

  ‘Good luck,’ he says dryly, turning to look at her now. ‘I’m going to be away for a few days. On a shoot in Newcastle, some men’s mag thing.’

  Laurie looks at him in surprise. ‘You didn’t say!’

  ‘Didn’t I? Well, I’m saying now. I’ll be gone before lunchtime – just got to throw a few things in a case and then I’ll be off.’

  She feels her guts twist. ‘All a bit last-minute isn’t it?’ She knows it’s the wrong thing to say, that it’ll annoy him, but she can’t help herself, her and her big mouth.

  ‘Don’t start again,’ Robert says with a warning tone in his voice. ‘A lot of my job is last-minute, Laurie, and you damn well know it is.’

  ‘I wasn’t saying anything, I just…’ She stops herself short. ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘Thursday, Friday maybe, depending on how the shoot goes.’

  Laurie nods. She wants to ask him who he’ll be shooting, about the crew and the magazine – normal questions that would come up in conversation – but she knows it will come across as her grilling him so she stays silent instead.

  ‘Well,’ she says evenly, ‘I hope the shoot goes well.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, turning his back to her as he pours more coffee. ‘Hope your thingy with the hotel lot goes well too.’

  He sounds disingenuous and now she really feels like crying. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, hovering. She at least wants a small hug and a kiss before he goes. ‘I’m sorry,’ Laurie says and he turns round and looks at her.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For doubting you last night, for the questions—’

  Robert smiles then, places his cup down and wraps his arms around her. ‘It’s okay,’ he says, kissing the top of her head. ‘Look, I love you, Laurie. You’re my wife, my life, my everything… You have nothing to be jealous about – you know that, don’t you?’

  She buries her head into his neck, inhales the scent of his skin, the remnants of his soapy Tom Ford cologne, and nods, trying not to break down.

  ‘Just stop with the paranoia and questions, yeah, then everything will be golden.’

  Laurie nods silently again, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘I’ll call, okay?’ Robert says as he turns to leave.

  Only she knows that he probably won’t, like the last time they’d had words before he’d gone away. He’d switched his phone off for three days while he’d been out in Paris and she had driven herself crazy trying to reach him, her calls and texts becoming more frantic, more fevered, more emotional. He had sworn it was an issue with his phone provider but deep inside Laurie knew it was something more: punishment. It was Robert’s way of telling her that if she dared assert herself too much then she would be cut off, shut down and dismissed.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I love you.’

  Nineteen

  ‘So,’ I address the incident room. It’s buzzing with that strange sort of electricity that generates whenever there’s a new case, the kind of energy that’s difficult to put into words. Adrenaline is your best friend on homicide – it’s what keeps you going, and it’s basically what’s holding me together right now because I haven’t had much shut-eye and I’m starting to hallucinate about pillows turning into Big Macs.

  ‘We’ve had to let Laurie Mills go,’ I say to a room full of groans. ‘I know, I know, it’s not ideal but it appears she has an alibi around the TOD and as yet there’s nothing solid to seal the deal. We’ll just have to wait for forensics.’

  More groans. They’re disappointed, naturally. Circumstantial evidence puts Laurie Mills at the top of the suspect list, a list which currently only has her name on it. To the naked eye, most would say it’s a foregone conclusion that forensics will come back with the evidence we need to put Mrs Mills behind bars for a long time. Only mine is telling me to look a little closer and that the picture isn’t quite all it seems. I know that Woods wants a quiet word with me because I saw him beckoning me into his office through my peripheral vision as I walked past, but I pretended not to notice. Woods can wait. I’m getting good at dodging people lately, which reminds me I haven’t called Fi yet. I silently tut at myself. Still, I’m hoping I’ll be able to give Woods the slip before I head home for some desperately needed sleep. Fi, however, is a slightly different story.

  I glance at Martin Delaney. He’s looking over at Davis as I begin to speak, as if he’s trying to catch her attention. His look reinforces my suspicion that something has gone on between them and it unsettles me. Sex, affairs and all of that business is rife in every workplace and the nick is no exception. It’s not encouraged of course; like the old man always told me, Never crap where you eat, Daniel, but people are people at the end of the day and even coppers are human – some of them anyway. I don’t particularly like it on my watch though. It complicates things, and I don’t like Delaney being on my watch at all.

  I continue. ‘Laurie Mills is still our prime suspect, but I also think we need to start looking beyond the obvious right now. Robert Mills was a man with a chequered past, a man who indulged in extra-marital affairs. Someone with secrets. We need to dig around deeper, cast the net a little wider. Laurie Mills might not be the only one out there with a grudge to bear.’ I try not to look at Delaney. ‘Just because Laurie Mills has a motive and found the body doesn’t automatically mean she’s the killer, okay? Let’s keep an open mind for now. Wait for forensics.’

  ‘It looks pretty clear-cut to me,’ a voice pipes up from the back. A voice I don’t recognise. ‘Annie Mitchell, sir.’ She announces herself with an air of confidence.

  I look over to see a pretty, mixed-race woman – well, she looks more like a girl to be honest, fresh-faced with hungry, bright green eyes. Just lately I’ve begun noticing how young everyone looks. Wait til you get to my age, Danny boy! was my dad’s response to this observation.

  ‘Where you from, Annie?’

  ‘Central, boss. Woods brought me in. Wanted me to have the “Dan Riley experience”, apparently.’ She raises an eyebrow.

  There are titters from the team, although I swear I can hear Delaney laughing above everyone else.

  ‘Well, welcome aboard, Annie. Hit me up,’ I say, knowing this is trendy speak and that I probably sound just like my father.

  ‘Okay.’ Mitchell looks chuffed to be kicking things off and I inwardly smile. I remember what it was like being new to homicide. The thrill of the clock ticking; the exhilaration and sense of urgency and purpose; the excitement of being part of a team of people united by the same agenda – catching killers.

  ‘Well, we have the weapon, boss, the motive, and the PS at the scene of crime covered in the victim’s blood. No break-in, nothing taken… looks pretty open-and-shut to me.’

  I look over at Mitchell. I’m slightly disappointed and I think it shows. ‘We don’t know it’s the
victim’s blood yet, Mitchell,’ I gently remind her.

  ‘Who else’s could it be?’

  ‘Her own, perhaps. Laurie Mills appears to have attempted suicide by slashing her wrists, though the wounds were fairly superficial. It’s also likely that there was a transfer of blood onto her clothes when she discovered the body. Just so you know, Mitchell, jumping to conclusions is not part of the “Dan Riley experience”.’

  Mitchell looks embarrassed and I feel like a bit of a shit.

  ‘So… the good news is, as Mitchell has kindly pointed out, that we have the murder weapon. We know what was used to kill Robert Mills and we know how he was killed.’ I tap the picture of the 8-inch kitchen knife that’s displayed on the board behind me next to the gruesome images of Robert Mills’ mutilated corpse. ‘There was no attempt by the killer to hide the murder weapon and it appears to have come from the Millses’ kitchen. We believe it was used by Mrs Mills some hours earlier to prepare dinner.’

  ‘The last supper,’ Harding says, deadpan.

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Quite. It’s currently with forensics, so we’ll see what they throw up.’

  ‘I’m not a gambling man,’ Delaney remarks, ‘but if I was, I’d say it’s pretty much a given that the wife’s will be the only dabs all over that knife.’

  I nod and swallow back a smart-arse, sarcastic reply. ‘Well, she doesn’t deny using the knife earlier that evening to prepare dinner, but let’s see what they’ve got, yes? We know the TOD was somewhere around the 8–10 p.m. mark; the body was still warm, still fresh, when we got there and we know there was no forced entry to the property. So, no, no sign of a break-in or any intruder.’ I nod at Mitchell and pause for a moment. The noises my stomach is making are reaching a crescendo and I wonder if the team can hear them. I could murder a bacon sarnie, no pun intended. It’s difficult to eat healthily in this job sometimes and Rach’s voice suddenly comes to me. A good breakfast sets you up for the day, Danny. Her speciality was this omelette-type thing with eggs and chorizo and peppers. I can almost taste it now and my mouth begins to water just thinking about it, about her.