The Chateau

by Catherine Cooper

  ‘Nonsense,’ Helen says briskly. ‘It’s for the best. You’re just drunk and can’t think straight but that’s fine – it helps our story stand up. Now, I’m going to get the boys, put their coats on and sit them on the front step. Once that’s done, I’ll come and help you knock some candles over and we’ll get things moving. OK? You can’t be carrying the boys down the stairs in the state you’re in, it’s dangerous.’

  I put my head in my hands and try to protest – I don’t want her leaving the boys on the front step on their own even for a short time – I’m sure that’s not what we agreed – but I can’t remember what we said and I can’t get the words out. I hear Helen retreating and she’s already gone. A couple of seconds later I hear her footsteps above as she goes into our room, and then whispering to either Bay or Sorrel as she carries him down the stairs and out of the front door. She then repeats the process with my second precious son. I picture them on the front step, confused and sleepy, bundled up in their coats. Sorrel will be sucking his finger with his squirrel held against his cheek and Bay will probably have dropped off again, his head in his brother’s lap. I don’t want to do this anymore. I try to stand up to go to them but my head spins, I’m wobbly on my feet and I crash back down into the chair.

  After a couple more beats Helen reappears in the doorway. I lift my head to look at her. ‘Are the boys OK?’ I ask hoarsely. ‘I want to see them.’

  ‘They’re fine,’ Helen says, her words louder and more abrasive than I expected. ‘I think we’re ready to go.’

  ‘No, Helen, I’ve changed my mind,’ I croak, but my voice isn’t working properly and she doesn’t seem to hear me.

  She picks up the candle closest to her and hurls it at the ancient drapes, which instantly go up in flames. I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly. I try to leap up but my head is heavy and it’s a struggle to find my balance. ‘Wait, Helen,’ I plead as I force myself on to my feet and towards the door. With one sweep of her arm, Helen knocks all the candles from the fireplace on to the chaise longue below, which instantly sets ablaze. As I stumble towards the door she slams it shut in my face and I hear the key click in the lock.

  82

  November, London

  Seb

  The weeks spent at the chateau went brilliantly. The executive producer is really happy with our footage and literally rubbing his hands together with glee at how things turned out, with all the drama. He was expecting a simple story of renovation with minor bickering and little setbacks – this plot line will be a game-changer for French Fancy as a series, and he knows it. He pretended to be shocked by Nick’s death for about five minutes but since it made most of the UK papers (sample headlines; Death in Paradise and Byng Bang Ding Dong – thanks, no doubt to the production company press office) – he’s been practically wetting himself over the potential viewing figures. They’ve even found some money in the budget for an outdoor advertising campaign, which is practically unheard of for this kind of programme.

  Chateau Ricane was originally going to be episode three in the new series, but they’ve now brought it forward as they want to open with it. I’ve been working eighteen-hour days to get it edited. It’s my programme, I wanted to do all the editing myself, even if I’ve had to fast-track it a bit. It was agreed that I would edit as part of my contract. It was important to me.

  The premise of the programme is ‘we show it all exactly as it happens’, according to the publicity. But in an edited show, things are never going to appear exactly as they happen, are they? It’s just not possible. So being in control of the edit has allowed me to ensure certain people are shown in a certain light. That their true colours are absolutely evident. Editing is always my favourite part of the programme-making process, but especially so this time.

  Every time Nick is dismissive towards Aura or Helen, the footage has stayed in. Most of the hard work he did around the chateau ripping out things, painting and renovating, gone. All the times he sat at the kitchen table complaining about something or bitching about the locals, in. Most of the cute footage of him playing with his two boys, gone. It’s such fun. Almost like playing God.

  Bertie suggesting Nick join the hunt was a gift to me. It was the second chance I needed. Especially after my attempt to kill Nick at the Hallowe’en party had failed. And after all the care I’d taken, purchasing a large knife in a bog-standard supermarket, along with a few other items, and paying in cash so it would be virtually untraceable, then stashing it in my camera bag and waiting for a moment when he was alone. When I caught sight of the big black cloak and scythe heading in the direction of the portacabin loos while everyone else was watching the fireworks, I knew this was the chance I’d been waiting for all night. I put my latex gloves on, slipped in behind him and stabbed him in the back. Some might call that cowardly, but it was no better than he deserved. Except it turned out I’d picked the wrong Death, and it wasn’t Nick at all, it was that poor sap Frank. I feel bad about that, obviously, but needs must. From what I understand, no one will miss the guy too much anyway, not now he’s been exposed as a perv. Chloe and I were questioned, along with all the other party-goers, and I gave the police access to all our footage of that night. I explained to them that we don’t film constantly, so the gap in filming at the time that Frank was murdered was just one of many that evening, as they could see. I shot the grand finale of the fireworks display, which somewhat appropriately formed a heart dripping blood against the night sky, after I had stabbed Frank. But we wouldn’t need more than a few seconds of the display for the programme so I hadn’t filmed the whole thing, as I told them. And obviously it would have been weird to have been shooting outside the loos, away from the party, so there was nothing of use to them in what I’d captured. They weren’t suspicious when I told them I couldn’t remember exactly where I’d been when Frank was stabbed – it had been a very busy evening and I had been all over the place.

  But back to the day of the hunt. Chloe was in charge of filming because I was taking part in the shoot. It couldn’t have gone better. The crack of dawn start had already put her on the back foot – she’s never at her best first thing in the morning. The drizzle and cold meant she was already bored, pissed off and not concentrating properly by the time we got to the woods. The mist made it difficult to see clearly. And then Nick choosing to go for a leak when he did – what a godsend that was. I’d have done it anyway though. I would have shot him. I’d have found my moment at some point – it would have been easy enough. Hunting accidents happen more regularly than you’d think. But with everyone firing their guns like that, and all the guns being pretty much of the same type, they never did work out who fired the fatal shot. Especially as I’d brought my own along because, well, you never know. When I left the UK, knowing that I needed to kill Nick, I hid it in the van, just in case. I used my own gun that day – I switched it earlier in the morning with the one that Bertie lent me. The ballistics people found it all very confusing, but ballistics is never an exact science at the best of times.

  Bertie seemed privately convinced it was him who fired the fatal shot, as well as fretting over the fact that Nick was officially his responsibility. A few of the red tops went full throttle over his presence that day, taking the opportunity to reveal his affair which was, apparently, common knowledge around Westminster. But I don’t feel bad about that – he deserves it. He’s a lecherous old perv whose sweet wife Tiggy deserves much better. Now that the affair is public, maybe she’ll find the strength to leave him. Maybe she could even shack up with Celia, like she clearly wants to. I hope so.

  I’ve been through all the footage of that day carefully, as did the French police, and there’s nothing to implicate me. I’ve since got rid of the gun, of course – I dropped it in a river during a stop on our drive back to the UK while Chloe bought sandwiches. Any other day I’d have given Chloe a bollocking for her shoddy filming, missing a key event like someone being killed. She had the camera trained on Thea at the time, for some reas
on, so she didn’t see anything.

  So, I will get away with it, just as that bastard got away with killing my sister and causing my mum to have a total breakdown. The inquest recorded an open verdict, which is often what they do when they think a death is a suicide but can’t be 100 per cent sure. But as far as I’m concerned, it was murder.

  With the so-called ‘incident’ happening at Ella’s school the way it did, the DNA of literally hundreds of people was all over the room. Nick’s DNA was found on her clothes, but he had danced with her earlier that night, so that wasn’t enough proof that anything untoward had gone on.

  Jack, her kind-of boyfriend, told the police she’d said she wanted a few minutes to herself in the art room because she was upset at that pathetic excuse for a man ignoring her all evening, only dancing with her when Molly forced him to. According to the investigation and the inquest, Ella fell while she was alone in the room. She had been drinking, and they decided she probably fell out of the window while getting some air.

  But does that sound likely? I don’t think so. I don’t think she fell. I think she jumped, because of all the stress that pathetic excuse for a man caused her. Or perhaps Nick pushed her – worried she was going to tell someone what had really happened between them. I’ll probably never know but either way, as far as I’m concerned, he killed her.

  Mum had told me about the stuff that had happened at school, the Instagram post and all that. When I asked Ella about it, she insisted there was nothing going on, but I didn’t believe her. Ugh. Even the thought of him perving over her still makes me want to hurl.

  He always denied everything – said she had a crush on him, happens all the time in schools. The CPS decided not to prosecute – they said that while there were rumours of an incident on the ski trip, there wasn’t any evidence. It was all hearsay, a photo that could be explained away, with both parties claiming nothing untoward had occurred. Reading between the lines, I think the authorities decided, given that Ella was already dead, and in light of perv-face’s exemplary record, it wasn’t in the public interest. Basically, they couldn’t be arsed. He was a small story in the paper for a few days and he apparently ‘agreed to resign from his job’, but that was it.

  I spoke to her Manchester friends at her funeral – I’ve known them since they were all tiny. Before her death, Ella had been miserable. He made her miserable, causing all that trouble with the stuff on Instagram, leading her on and then casting her aside. All so upsetting for her. Absolutely the last thing she needed when she was at a new school, away from her friends, knowing no one. She’s dead, it’s his fault, whether she was pushed or she jumped is kind of irrelevant now. He’s finally got what he deserves.

  I wish she’d confided in me. I hadn’t been in touch as much as I should have before she died. We were close when she was still in Manchester. She was my little sister, and I protected her. She wanted to live with me when Mum moved to London, but Mum wouldn’t have it and, realistically, I didn’t have the space or time to make sure she was behaving herself. We still spoke fairly often after the move, but we were both always busy, especially me, and I regret not making more time for her.

  After Ella died, I read in the paper that Nick and his drippy wife Aura had decided to start a new life in France. I followed her on social media using a fake account. Since she shared pretty much every spit and cough of their move, it was easy enough to find out where they would be going.

  My original plan had been to head out to France on holiday, find him and, one way or another, ensure justice was done. I hadn’t been there for Ella enough when she was alive, but I could take revenge now she was dead. Maybe that would make up for my failing her, at least to a degree. As well as for what he’d done to Mum, who still isn’t well enough to continue in the job she’d strived for her whole career. She’s signed off sick for now, but I imagine eventually they’ll find a way to get rid of her. So he’s not only killed my sister, but ruined my mum’s life too.

  I hadn’t decided on details, but I’ve watched enough CSI and worked on enough true crime programmes to have a few ideas about how to kill someone and get away with it. Plus I already had my gun, if need be. It’s easier than you’d imagine to get a shotgun licence, especially if you’re a member of a shooting club like I am.

  And then a TV mate mentioned he was execcing on this programme and that the wife of ‘that perv teacher’ had applied to be on it. He was all set to turn her down, until I told him ratings would go through the roof if they handled it right. Even talked him into giving me a job on the programme – Ella had a different surname to me, being from a different relationship of Mum’s, so he never made the connection.

  It was tricky being around Nick in France, trying to pretend to be nice when all the while I wanted nothing more than to smash his face in, but it helped to see how miserable he was. Aura barely let him touch her and as far as I could see, they kept out of each other’s way as much as possible. She almost seemed to shudder when he came near.

  I think he regretted the move. The chateau was a horrible, creepy place. I don’t believe in the supernatural, but some of the stuff that was happening there freaked me out. The dead animals, the music going off in the night, the lights switching on and off at random. Aura accused me of setting it up to make the filming more interesting, but it was nothing to do with me. I still feel a bit spooked by some of it.

  I turn back to the screen. Chloe has finally caught up with the action and I hear a muffled gasp from her as she zooms in on Nick’s prone body, his pathetic cock hanging out of his flies. I won’t be able to get away with leaving this shot in the final cut, but seeing him dead on the ground and knowing it was me that put him there feels good. I’ve finally done right by Ella and Mum.

  83

  November, Mozène

  Aura

  ‘Helen!’ I try to shout, but my voice comes out as a weird slur. ‘What are you doing? Let me out!’

  The window is now a wall of flames where the drapes have caught alight, and the chaise longue has gone up like a bonfire. The air is thick with smoke and it’s difficult to breathe. I pull my T-shirt up over my mouth but it doesn’t make any difference. I bang on the door but my arms feel like lead and I can barely lift them. ‘Where are the boys?’ I plead.

  ‘They’re fine,’ Helen snaps from behind the door. ‘I put them in the car to keep them safe and warm. I gave them a little sedative with their evening milk earlier so they won’t wake up.’

  ‘What?’ I ask. ‘What did you give them?’

  ‘None of those stupid sugar pills of yours. An antihistamine – something to make them properly sleepy. Nothing dangerous. I’m not going to harm innocent children. Not like you. I put something stronger in your vodka too. And in case you wonder why you may have been feeling particularly out of sorts lately, I’ve been slipping a few extra pills the doctor gave you into your food for days now, to make it harder for you to think. Belt and braces, and all that.’

  A buzz of adrenaline makes me feel slightly more lucid, though it is still hard to focus. I don’t understand what she means about me harming children. ‘What? Why? What are you talking about?’ I demand. ‘I’ve never hurt a child. Never would. Please, Helen,’ I bang on the door again but my arms feel weird and floppy. ‘Let me out. We can talk about this. Whatever you think I’ve done, there’s been a mistake.’

  I cough and pull my T-shirt further up over my mouth, but it’s useless. It’s not making any difference. I sink down to the floor, remembering from some safety course I did at work that in a smoke-filled room, the air is clearer lower down. I bang on the door again. ‘Please, Helen …’

  ‘There was no mistake,’ Helen says. ‘My daughter died.’

  What? What daughter? Why has she never mentioned this before?

  ‘That’s awful, Helen,’ I slur, trying to keep my mind and voice clear in spite of my panic and brain fog. ‘But I never met your daughter. I didn’t even know you had one. I don’t understand why you’re blaming
me. Please, let me out and we can talk about this.’

  The window. Maybe the window. The curtains have as good as burned away now. If I get over there, I might be able to escape. I start to drag myself over on my stomach, as low to the ground as I can. The smoke is so thick now I can barely see and my lungs feel like they are burning.

  ‘Shut up,’ Helen snaps, ‘from here on you can just listen. Little Angels? The nursery where you sent your boys? I don’t imagine you ever met my daughter – things like pick-ups and drop-offs were too menial for someone like you. Nick would have met her though – my daughter Indy and Sorrel were good friends. Nick never met me. I rarely saw any of the other parents – poor Indy was first in and last out most days. Not because it was beneath me to pick up my child, but because as a single mum, I had to work long hours to support us both. I didn’t have the nice short days of a teacher like Nick or a counsellor like you.’

  I don’t say anything and continue trying to drag myself towards the window.

  ‘Are you still listening? I hope you haven’t died just yet. I want you to know what you did. Or rather, what you didn’t do.’

  I’ve no idea what she’s talking about. The woman is clearly mad. How did I not notice? Why did I trust her with the boys? Why did I never question why a woman of her age was living like a backpacker? Oh God. I need to get out of here. What has she done with them? Where are they? I try to take a deep breath but the thick air burns and makes me cough again.