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Destroy Me

Page 3

by Karen Cole


  ‘God, I hate Sam,’ I say when she pauses for breath, and she laughs.

  ‘Yeah, Sam and your husband, what a pair of losers,’ she says, switching on the blow dryer and drowning out my answer.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ she says, holding up a mirror behind my head and admiring her handiwork when she’s finished.

  I swivel my head in front of the mirror and my hair swishes and falls in a sleek blonde sheet. The result is really weird. I look like a successful, professional woman. Nothing like the photofit. Nothing like me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, paying her. ‘You’ve done a great job.’

  There’s nothing like a new haircut to boost your mood and I walk home feeling much calmer and more hopeful. Every so often, I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and I see a woman I don’t recognise as me. I don’t even look all that fat, I decide. This is the start of a new chapter in my life, I think. I’m going to take care of myself. No more binge eating, no more worrying and I’m going to always be kind and patient with Dylan. Perhaps I’ll even go to the gym. Now I’ve dyed my hair, no one will make the connection between me and that photofit. I turn into my street, my hair bouncing like a shampoo ad, my confidence soaring.

  But on the corner I stop abruptly and steady myself on a garden wall, fighting the instinct to turn and run. Because way down at the other end of the street I see something that makes my heart freeze.

  There’s a police car parked right outside my house.

  Four

  At number fifteen a curtain twitches and I catch a glimpse of Eileen Robinson peering out from the gloom of her living room, her pale moon face stained with malice. For a second, our eyes meet. Then she presses her lips together and jerks the curtains closed. No prizes for guessing who recognised the photofit and called the police.

  I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve no need to worry, I tell myself as I make my way up the road. Even so, my legs buckle and my heart races when I reach my house. I walk right past the police car, my head held high, pretending I haven’t noticed the two officers sitting inside. Then I open my front gate and step on to the path, but the sound of the car door slamming behind me jolts through my whole body.

  ‘Catherine Bayntun?’ says a voice and I turn, polite surprise plastered on my face.

  ‘Yes?’ I say, trying to keep my voice calm.

  A middle-aged woman with short, grey–blonde hair and a careworn face is holding out her hand. Just behind her, a young, plump man with a florid complexion is smiling awkwardly.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Littlewood and this is Sergeant Fisher,’ says the woman. ‘Can we come in and have a quick word?’

  ‘Sure.’ I fumble with the lock, hoping they haven’t noticed that my hand is trembling as I push open the door.

  ‘Lovely dog,’ Sergeant Fisher says, patting Delilah on the head, taking in the Lego, still sprawled all over the floor, the crumbs on the sofa and the wilting pot plant on the windowsill.

  ‘I like your hairdo.’ DI Littlewood perches on the edge of the sofa and appraises me with shrewd blue eyes. ‘Have you been to the hairdresser’s recently?’

  I touch the back of my head self-consciously. Was it a mistake? Does changing my appearance so drastically make me look guilty – as if I have something to hide?

  ‘Yes, I went just this morning,’ I say warily.

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  There’s an awkward silence. They’re clearly not here to chat about my hair. ‘Er . . . would you like a drink? Tea, coffee?’ I offer.

  ‘No thanks, Catherine,’ DI Littlewood, smiles. Her manner is genial, pally almost. But her eyes are sharp, and they seem to take in everything and cut straight through my new look to the soft, scared core of me.

  ‘We’re looking into the death of Charlotte Holbrooke,’ she says. ‘The woman that was murdered in her home a couple of days ago.’ She pauses, watching my reaction carefully. I try to assemble my features into the correct response, though I’m not sure what that is. Shock? Surprise? ‘It’s just a routine enquiry,’ she adds in a way that I guess is supposed to be reassuring. ‘Did you know her at all?’

  At this moment, if you could see inside my brain, it would look like a herd of wildebeest, stampeding in all directions.

  ‘Er, no . . . well, that is yes. I mean I saw her on TV last night.’

  DI Littlewood arches her eyebrows and exchanges a meaningful look with Sergeant Fisher.

  My cheeks are burning. Why am I behaving as if I’m guilty? Why didn’t I just admit I know her? The police can easily find out the truth and when they do, I’ll look even more suspicious.

  ‘Actually,’ I blurt, my face hot, ‘I did know her a long time ago. We went to school together. But I haven’t seen her in years.’

  ‘Oh?’ DI Littlewood nods, revealing nothing. Sergeant Fisher smiles awkwardly, sits down on a toy car, picks it up and places it on the coffee table. Delilah sits next to him, wagging her tail and watching him intently. He scratches behind her ears and clears his throat. ‘Can we ask where you were last Friday night, the thirtieth of August.’ he asks. ‘Were you anywhere near the town centre?’

  ‘No, of course I wasn’t,’ I say quickly. Too quickly.

  DI Littlewood observes me with polite curiosity. ‘Where were you, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  And if I do mind? I think. Out loud I just say: ‘Um what time?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us about your whole night. From six pm until the morning?’

  ‘Friday?’ I’ve had time to think, rehearse this in my head. I know what to say. ‘I dropped off Dylan, that’s my son, with my ex at about six o’clock. He takes him every other weekend. Then I went to Weight Watchers.’

  ‘Weight Watchers?’ DI Littlewood jots something down in her notebook. ‘You don’t look like you need Weight Watchers,’ she adds politely.

  ‘No, well I lost a couple of stone after my husband left. It turns out divorce is the best diet ever,’ I laugh bitterly. ‘I should probably write a book about it. Sod the Keto diet, try the Divorce diet.’

  Sergeant Fisher rubs his round belly and chuckles. ‘Divorce didn’t work for me. I could probably do with going to Weight Watchers myself, though I don’t know how I’d handle all that being-weighed-in-front-of-everyone stuff. Where do you meet?’

  ‘In the Phoenix Centre.’ I rummage in a drawer and hand him a flier with Sara’s phone number on it. ‘Sara Walters is our coach. If you speak to her, she’ll confirm that I was there.’ Sara knows everyone in this small, rural town and she loves to gossip, so if there’s anyone that didn’t already know that I’m a suspect in a murder case, they will now. But I don’t really have a choice. I need this alibi.

  ‘Did you go straight there from your ex-husband’s place?’ Sergeant Fisher asks, leaning forward, sucking the end of his pen.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how long were you there? At Weight Watchers, I mean.’

  ‘About an hour. But after that . . . I went for a drink.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At the Black Bear.’

  ‘The Black Bear?’ Littlewood frowns and purses her lips. ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘It’s in Tewkesbury.’

  ‘Tewkesbury? That’s quite a long way to go for a drink . . .’ The way she says this makes it sound suspicious. Then again, she manages to make everything I say sound suspicious.

  ‘Yes, my friend wanted to see the band that was playing there.’

  ‘Oh, so you went with a friend?’

  ‘Yes, from Weight Watchers. Her name is Gaby. Gaby Wright.’

  Littlewood puts on her glasses and jots the name down. ‘Do you have a contact number for her?’

  I give her Gaby’s number. Gaby will back me up, I think. Gaby and I will have a laugh about this when it’s all over. But the questions
are coming hard and fast and I’ve no idea how a murder investigation is usually conducted, but I’m beginning to think they’re being quite thorough if I’m someone they don’t view as a person of interest.

  ‘Just Gaby?’ Littlewood peers at me over the top of her glasses. It makes her look like a strict schoolteacher, one who’s caught you cheating on an exam.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, what? You had a few drinks? How long were you there?’

  ‘Until closing time and then I went home.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ I admit, and I flush with embarrassment. An image flashes into my mind. A handsome face, black hair, luminous green eyes, a pale, gym-toned stomach. Luke.

  ‘Oh?’ DI Littlewood leans forward and picks up her pen.

  ‘I met someone at the pub. His name is Luke . . .’ I break off, realising that I never asked his second name. I’m not even sure that Luke is his real name.

  ‘And when you got home. Did you go in alone?’ She catches my expression. ‘I’m sorry if this seems nosy, but it could be important.’

  ‘No, he came with me. He stayed the night.’ I say. My cheeks are on fire now.

  Sergeant Fisher tries to hide a smirk behind his hand and DI Littlewood stares studiously at a spot above my head. My sex life is none of their business, I think crossly. I’m a grown woman. I’m single. If I want to sleep with a man I barely know, that’s up to me.

  ‘So how did you meet . . . this . . . Luke?’ she asks, stressing the name, as if she has doubts that he’s real.

  ‘Er . . . we just got chatting in the pub.’ My business, I think firmly.

  ‘Right. And what time did he leave?’

  ‘He left in the morning. I’m not sure what time, but it was light.’ I remember that when I woke up that morning daylight was streaming in through the gap in the blinds and Luke was already dressed in the suit he’d been wearing the night before. He must have showered and used my toothpaste because he smelled fresh and clean as he bent over me and kissed me on my bare shoulder.

  ‘You were out for the count,’ he grinned, kissing my neck again, and I breathed in his scent, trying to keep my mouth closed, so he wouldn’t smell my morning breath.

  ‘But I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,’ he said. ‘And thank you for a beautiful evening. I’ve got to go to work. I’ll call you, okay?’

  I close my eyes, trying not to think about how happy I was that morning. How excited and buoyant, like a child. Is it possible that that was just a few days ago? I feel a century has passed since then.

  ‘He had to go to work, so I’m guessing it was about eight, eight-thirty.’ As I say it, I wonder if he really had to work or if that was just an excuse to get out quickly. Of course, he never had any intention of calling me.

  ‘Do you have a contact address or number, just so we can verify your account of the evening?’ Littlewood asks.

  ‘No,’ I admit sheepishly.

  She clears her throat. ‘What about your ex-husband? Can you give us his address and phone number?’

  ‘Why? What’s Theo got to do with anything?’ I’m getting a little impatient and nervousness is making me antsy.

  ‘We’d just like to talk to him, that’s all. Get a complete picture.’

  Picture of what? Reluctantly, I scribble down Theo’s address and number on the back of an envelope. I can imagine Harper will have a field day when she finds out I’m a suspect in a murder case.

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with your ex?’ Sergeant Fisher sits back, lacing his fingers over his belly.

  ‘Um, civil. We’re trying to keep it friendly for our little boy’s sake.’

  ‘Very commendable. My ex and I don’t speak . . . or if we do, it’s only in four-letter words.’ He chuckles.

  DI Littlewood throws him an icy look – clearly, he’s deviating from the script.

  There’s a silence while DI Littlewood looks around, her sharp eyes scouring the room, and Sergeant Fisher leans back, his arm draped along the back of the sofa.

  ‘You haven’t asked us why we’re asking you all these questions,’ he says. ‘You must be wondering.’

  I nod slightly. Of course, I already know why, but I’m unsure whether it’s wise to let them know that.

  DI Littlewood clears her throat and hands me a printout. ‘A witness provided us with this description of a woman they saw outside Charlotte’s flat the night she was murdered,’ she says.

  The paper trembles in my hand. I take a deep breath and glance down at the picture. It’s the same image I saw on TV last night. My own eyes stare mildly back at me from the page. Instinctively, I reach up and touch the mole on my cheek – the one mirrored on the photofit. I wasn’t imagining the resemblance last night. If anything, on closer inspection it looks even more like me.

  ‘Of course, now your hair is blonde you look a little different,’ DI Littlewood is saying. Her voice seems to be coming from a long way away, as if I’m underwater and she’s on the surface calling down to me. ‘But I think you’ll agree that it’s uncanny.’

  I try to laugh, but it comes out as a sort of frightened squeak. ‘Yes, I saw it on the news. It does look like me, I know. But obviously it’s not. You can’t seriously think . . .’

  I wait for them to laugh with me – to reassure me that it is indeed ridiculous. But DI Littlewood just gives me a small, thin smile and Fisher gazes at me thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

  ‘Witness testimony is notoriously unreliable,’ says DI Littlewood. ‘But you have to agree it’s a strange coincidence. How would you explain it?’

  I breathe slowly through my nose. My heart is racing in my chest. I can’t let them see how rattled I am. That will only make them suspect me more.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I shrug helplessly. ‘Maybe the witness mixed me up with someone else or saw me another time and got muddled about when they saw me. Who gave you the photofit?’

  Littlewood exchanges a glance with Fisher. ‘I’m afraid we can’t reveal that information,’ she says evenly.

  ‘You can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt you? Cause trouble for you?’ asks Fisher. ‘Do you have any enemies?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Harper maybe, I think. But I would want to cause trouble for her more than she would for me. She’s the one who wronged me, not the other way around.

  There’s another long, awkward silence while they both stare at me curiously. I’m starting to think it might be a tactic. Some people can’t bear silences. Perhaps they think that if they’re silent long enough, I’ll start talking and incriminate myself. Well, I’m not falling into their trap. I fold my arms in front of my chest and meet their gaze defiantly. Then, I look pointedly at my watch. ‘I’ve got to go and pick up my son from school soon,’ I say.

  ‘At eleven o’clock?’ Littlewood says sceptically.

  ‘Yes, it’s his first day. He’s finishing early.’

  ‘Okay, well . . .’ she stands up slowly and Sergeant Fisher follows suit. ‘I think that’s about all for now. Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Bayntun. We’ll be in touch.’

  Is it my imagination or does it sound like a threat?

  Five

  It’s started raining while we’ve been talking and Littlewood and Fisher dash to their car, holding their bags over their heads. After they’ve gone, I close the door firmly behind them, lock it and head to the kitchen where I rip off the picture of the skinny model in a bikini I have sellotaped to the fridge. I tear it up and throw it in the bin. Then I root through the fridge, cut myself a large chunk of cheese and shovel it into my mouth. After that, I open a packet of Penguin biscuits and steadily munch my way through them. I eat automatically without even tasting, and I know even as I’m doing it that it’s not a good idea, that I’ll regret it later, but I can’t seem to contro
l myself. The food slips down my throat. It has a welcome numbing effect on my mind.

  ‘Food is not your friend, Cat.’ I hear Theo’s voice in my head. It almost feels as if he’s standing behind me. I can see his raised eyebrows, the slight amused curl of his lips.

  Fuck off, Theo, I think. You don’t get to judge me any more. Not after what you’ve done to me. He always said he didn’t mind my generous curves, even when I piled on a couple of extra stone after Dylan was born. He always said all the right things – that he loved me the way I was, that it just meant there was more of me to love. Well, actions speak louder than words and his words turned out to be worthless lies. He lost the right to have anything to do with my life after he cheated on me with Harper. Harper, of all people! Waiflike Harper, who looks as if a strong gust of wind could blow her away.

  The chocolate sticks to my tongue and teeth and I stare angrily out of the window at the rain. Is there any way I could be mistaken about Friday night? I had quite a lot to drink, and my memory of the evening is patchy. Could I have been near Charlie’s house or even on Cecily Hill for some reason? Perhaps Luke stopped off there when he drove me home. I can’t remember much about the drive home apart from a vague memory of the warm smell of leather, Luke’s lips on mine, the tang of whisky on his tongue.

  But why would Luke have driven to Cecily Hill on the way from Tewkesbury to my house? It makes no sense. It’s a dead end and only leads to the park.

  I scour my mind, going through the events of that evening again, slowly and methodically.

  Everything I told the police was the truth – more or less. I might have left out some tiny details, but the bare bones are correct.

  It’s true, for example, that it was about six when I dropped Dylan off at his father’s. Dylan had whimpered a little and clung to my leg as I tried to leave, and I got a mean and petty satisfaction from the flicker of hurt I saw in Theo’s eyes. A small taste of what rejection feels like, I thought. But my satisfaction was short-lived because Harper appeared at the door soon after, looking radiant, young, slender and beautiful.

 

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