Kiss Me, Kill Me Read online

  ‘Muriel,’ he says, ‘you should go. You’ve been a tremendous help, but my wife informs me that your services are no longer required.’

  She presses her lips together and stalks forward, holding her hand out at mid-height. Humphrey takes her hand and shakes it firmly, and she curtseys.

  ‘I’ll deposit the last of your wages into your bank account this evening.’

  She darts her eyes to me then back to him. ‘If you’re sure?’

  He nods, once. ‘Thank you for everything you have done for me and my wife.’

  She turns to me, takes my hand in hers and digs her thumbnail into the space between my thumb and forefinger until my palm goes slack, her features unchanged.

  I smile and pull back my hand. It tingles.

  Humphrey grasps me tight and holds me against his rounded stomach so that I can feel his heartbeat against my neck. I squirm. ‘Bethan will take responsibility for the manor from now on. Won’t you, darling?’

  ‘Of course.’ The numbness in my palm slowly begins to dissipate and a flush of heat spreads across my cheeks, along with the jarring pain that begins to bloom in my hand.

  I wait until she’s gone before I glance down at the half-moon indent where Muriel’s nail had dug into my flesh so hard that she’d managed to pierce the skin.

  ‘Our guests will be here at seven. I expect you know what you’re cooking?’

  ‘Yes.’ I can’t disguise the resentful lilt in my voice.

  ‘No red meat. I need to lower my cholesterol,’ he says, rubbing my shoulder and stroking my neck.

  I think of all the fat congealing inside his heart, causing it to bloat and clogging up his arteries. His hand grasping at his chest while he strains to breathe. His eyes wide and his face the colour of a plum. ‘I wouldn’t worry about a bit of fat.’

  ‘Heart attacks are the number one cause of death for men in this country.’

  I move forward, the backs of his fingers brushing lightly against my spine as his hand falls to his side. I close my eyes and imagine he’s someone else: handsome and muscled. When I open them, they land on the gun cabinet.

  There are worse things to die of.

  DI LOCKE

  Then

  The signalman was shaking when I arrived. I retrieved the tartan blanket from the boot of my car which I kept in case of situations such as this and threw it over him.

  ‘I’m not cold,’ he insisted, teeth chattering.

  ‘You’re in shock. Detective Inspector Locke,’ I said, flashing my ID card at him and the uniformed officer stood beside him.

  ‘I shouldn’t have opened it.’

  ‘I know it must have been an awful sight, but I’m pleased you did.’

  He frowns.

  ‘If you hadn’t, we might never have found them.’

  ‘Them?’ he said, eyes wide.

  ‘I meant in plural terms, because we don’t know yet whether the individual is male or female.’

  His shoulders dropped and he nodded.

  ‘What do I call you?’

  He’d already repeated the information twice. Once during his conversation to the call handler when he’d dialled 101, and again to the police constable who was watching him like a hawk.

  He gave me his name, date of birth and address. Then I asked how he’d come across the suitcase.

  The PC listened and watched to ensure his version of the event matched the one he’d given previously.

  ‘Staffing cuts mean I’m sometimes tasked with checking the lines. People throw rubbish off the overpass. Sometimes stuff lands on the rails. Not only if the object is large could it cause an accident, but fly-tipping attracts vermin. Rats can chew the cables, causing signal failures, and aluminium foil and cans on the tracks can cause short-circuiting. Both can lead to derailment.’

  I glanced down at the gardening gloves covering his trembling hands. ‘They send you out in the dark?’

  ‘The first train’s at 7 a.m. I’ve got a Maglite and I’ve got LED motion sensor lights set up down there.’

  ‘So you were removing rubbish from the tracks.’

  ‘I dumped a bicycle wheel, some wood and a couple of bags of soiled nappies I’d found into a rusted shopping trolley and dragged it up onto the verge. That’s when I smelt what I thought was a dead animal. The suitcase was buried beneath the undergrowth. It looked like it had been there a while. It was light and rattled, and as I pulled it out through the nettles, I saw that it was stained. But I couldn’t tell if it was blood or Ronseal. I know you’re not supposed to open bags you find. Especially near transport links. But when I inspected the ground there was a tenner sticking out of the mud. I thought maybe… I don’t know.’

  He thought the suitcase was filled with money. Was hoping he could keep it.

  ‘I unzipped the suitcase and about a hundred dried maggots fell onto my foot. There was a bone protruding through them. I called the police, then my supervisor.’

  Car headlights drew my attention to the vehicle that was cruising down Lodge Road.

  I motioned to the PC. ‘My colleague is going to need to take a formal statement from you in a moment. And a mouth swab to collect your DNA so we can eliminate it from any we might find on the suitcase. He’ll drive you down to Newport Central to do that and bring you back here afterwards.’

  ‘Where are you parked?’ said the PC.

  The man pointed to the opposite side of the road, past my own car. I nodded to the PC and excused myself to meet the lead technician.

  The van pulled over and the crime scene investigators exited it, donned in white coveralls. The driver had yet to zip his suit up to the bridge of his nose to mask the lower section of his face, drop his hood down to his forehead, apply the visor attached, slide on a pair of gloves and slip the shoe coverlets over his feet. He opened the back doors of the white van and retrieved some cables, a camera and a silver case that contained the equipment that would be used to collect items that surrounded the suitcase which were deemed significant in identifying who it belonged to or who dumped it.

  I’d called Jones on my way out the door of the house that I, my husband Johnno, and stepson Jaxon were renting in Pontypool. He was here now, hair uncombed and a red mark beside his left eye which told me he slept on his side and had been out of bed for less than fifteen minutes. It shouldn’t have taken him longer than me to get here. I’d had to travel eight miles to Carleon.

  He parked his car behind the van and walked towards me.

  ‘I need you to oversee the evidence collection.’

  He glanced over my shoulder and down at the floodlit rubble where the female PC was guarding the crime scene. ‘I’ll start the scene log.’

  I heard him introduce himself as Detective Constable Jones to the witness, and the PC stood beside him as I strode to the CSIs.

  ‘Who’s the lead technician?’

  The driver raised his hand in the air.

  I got his name and gave him mine.

  ‘What have we got?’ he said.

  ‘Skeletal remains inside a suitcase. We’re assuming they’re human.’

  MELANIE

  Then

  I swung my legs over the pool and dipped my toes into the chlorinated water that glinted in the sunlight and rippled with the gentle breeze. It was cool on my small, bronzed legs.

  I heard my mother gasp then cry, ‘Mel!’ before I felt her grab me from behind and pull me away from the edge. ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? Have you got a death wish or something?’

  She didn’t tell me what I’d done was wrong or explain why.

  She walked across the patio, snatched a sweet pastry from the plastic dish on top of the table and shoved it into her mouth. Then she took a tall glass filled with sparkling liquid, her grip tightening around the stem while she chewed then swallowed the small sugar-glazed puff of grease and raised the glass to her lips.

  I licked mine in memory of the sweet bubbles that, when I’d stolen a sip while she dozed earlier,
had made my mouth tingle and my tummy warm.

  She spoke sloppily and complained that her tongue was furry then turned her back to me.

  I gazed up at the dazzling orb in the sky that made my skin sore and dangled my hot feet back over the ledge and into the water to feel its gentle caress lapping at my ankles.

  Seconds later she dragged me by the wrist forcing me upright, swung her arm back as far as it would go, and slapped me hard across the face. I fell backward, using my elbows to absorb the shock, but they grazed across the rough concrete as I landed.

  Tears pooled in my eyes as I inspected the gashes, but I was too stunned to cry.

  I stood, wiped the blood from my elbows with my damp palms and looked at my mother. At her smudged green eyeshadow, the pale lines across her bare shoulders where yesterday’s dress had hung from her rake-thin body, and at her heaving breasts that swung pendulum-like behind a tight, strapless bikini top that was covered in bright, multicoloured birds. Her face contorted into a mixture of what appeared to be irritation and regret.

  I glared at her and stomped my feet until they hurt, arms folded tight against my tummy, hair clung to my forehead with perspiration. ‘I hate you!’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ My father appeared in the doorway, clutching the phone to his chest, the cable taut.

  His shirt was dark around his armpits and his hair dripped sweat from his nose and left wet trails down his face that reminded me of the slime left on the path after heavy rain had invited the slugs out of their hideaways.

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ said my mother, eyes narrowed.

  ‘A client.’

  ‘Charge him double, then maybe I could afford an electric fan and she could play indoors.’ Her finger pointed behind her, at me.

  ‘Shut your damn mouth, woman, or I’ll—’ He turned back into the house at the distant voice of a shrunken male and raised the phone to his ear. ‘Yes, I’m still here. Sorry? Oh, I was just talking to my wife.’

  He slammed the French doors shut behind him and trod across the living room, his feet sinking into the carpet before he perched on the sofa, tapping his foot against the floor as he spoke.

  I couldn’t hear him, but I could see his forearm muscles constrict and loosen while his foot began to hit the floor faster as though in tune with the conversation.

  My mother sidled up to me and huffed. ‘Come on, brat. I’ll take you to the park.’ She flicked her sunglasses that were perched on her mane of copper hair and they fell over her eyes.

  She poured herself another glass of ‘grape juice’ and I watched her take a long series of gulps until it was empty, while I fastened the clasps on my white T-bar sandals.

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and belched, placing the glass back onto the table with a clink. She bent to inspect the shard of crystal she’d chipped off the stem, straightened, and shrugged. ‘Come on. I haven’t got all day.’

  I walked slowly towards her and followed her into the stuffy house where my father was hissing something unintelligible down the phone. His Adam’s apple jerked up and down as he slammed his hand onto his thigh with a resounding smack then gesticulated wildly for us to leave.

  My mother’s chin jutted out as she gritted her teeth in the same way I did when forcing myself not to say something, snatched my hand and tugged me through the living room, down the hall and out of the front door.

  The road was quiet. The houses on it were attached to one another and made from the same red brick with pointed roofs, and small front gardens.

  There was a lady knelt in the grass, snipping at the peach-coloured roses that grew next to the wall separating our garden from hers while we trod down the path. Her husband appeared to be humming a tune while he mowed the lawn. The lady smiled at me as my mother closed the gate. But as we passed her house, the woman shook her head at my mother and tapped her husband on the shoulder. He pressed a button on the mower and the loud whirring stopped, though the smell of petrol still lingered in the air. ‘That’s his wife,’ she said.

  ‘Living off her conman husband’s immoral earnings,’ he tutted.

  She nodded at him, holding eye contact with my mother.

  ‘The rain came right through Mrs Galloway’s kitchen window. They didn’t bother to seal the gap between the frame and the wall after installing them.’

  My mother stopped mid-step, twisting so fast that she bent my hand back. I jerked away from her and a sharp pain shot from my wrist and up to my elbow. ‘My husband’s a double-glazing salesman. Not a bloody window fitter. And it’s not him or the company he works for that you should be insulting but the idiot Mrs Galloway paid to screw her windows in after he’d nailed her!’

  The woman’s face turned scarlet and she clamped her hand over her face. Her eyes darted to her husband who was smirking while he rubbed her neck and lowered his voice to a soothing tone so quiet, I couldn’t hear his words.

  Across the street Mrs Galloway stood erect at her half-open living room window, her chiffon curtains rustling in the breeze.

  My mother’s rah-rah skirt swayed as she walked, her heels clacking along the pavement at a pace that made me breathless.

  My thoughts were on what I would do when we got to the playground. Would I zoom down the slide or swing through the air first?

  When we reached the field dotted with daisies there was a line of kids queuing at a yellow and white van. A man handed a boy an ice lolly decorated in sugar strands which he unwrapped and began to lick, his face beaming.

  ‘Can I have an ice cream?’

  My mother stopped and lowered her glasses to the tip of her nose to glance down at me.

  ‘Samantha!’

  She tilted her head at the sound of her name, released my still-aching hand and shooed me away.

  I watched her move towards a man wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He was leaning forward with his arms resting against the top of a bench on the other side of the metal fence separating the playground from the football field. A lit cigarette in his hand emitted smoke that curled upward to the linen-white, fluffball clouds. She halted mid-stride, swung round to press fifty pence into my hand, motioned to the climbing apparatus and said, ‘Take it over there to eat. I’ll be back in half an hour.’

  I went to follow her, but she frowned and continued towards the man whose moustache was neater than my father’s. My mother’s eyes lingered on the tattoo of a swallow that covered part of his left shoulder. She traced it with her fingertip then hissed at me to ‘Go and play.’

  ‘I’d like to play with you,’ he said, winding his fingers through her hair and nibbling her neck with his eyes on me. My mother whooped and tried to detach herself from him, but he cracked his hand against her bottom, and she laughed.

  I turned away and moved cautiously to meet the line of kids that had grown rapidly, queuing in front of the serving hatch of the ice cream van.

  When I looked back the man had his arm over my mother’s shoulder, her hand was in the back pocket of his jeans, and he was pointing to a white car parked next to a wall as they walked in its direction.

  I hesitantly joined the line, kicking dirt up into the air as I shuffled forward. I stood sandwiched between a scruffy-looking woman, her twin daughters sleeping facing one another with a raincoat over the Silver Cross pram to protect them from the sun, and an oversized boy who scowled at me every time I caught his eye. I tapped my foot in the same way my father did when he was frustrated.

  The man behind the counter had a curly beard and a belly as fat as Santa’s. ‘What are you having?’ he asked, leaning over the counter to hear my reply against the backdrop of squealing kids, barking dogs, squawking seagulls and chattering adults.

  ‘What can I get for this?’ I handed him the money.

  He flicked the silver coin and it spun on his palm until he slammed his hand over it then slid it into his pocket. When he caught me staring at his wizardry with awe he grinned and said, ‘Party trick.’

  He turned
his back to me, then a minute later produced the biggest ice cream I’d ever seen. He winked at me as I took it from him, open-mouthed.

  I bit the top off the chocolate flake and sucked the strawberry sauce that had run down my hand from between my sticky fingers.

  I scanned the area opposite for my mother, but she, the man and the white car were gone.

  My thumb pierced through the waffle cone and crunched under its force. I felt something soft and cold under my nail. Then the ice cream slopped onto the ground and squelched beneath my shoe.

  BETHAN

  Now

  The fire alarm screeches, and my heart begins to pound. I rush into the kitchen, snatch a tea towel from the sparkling granite countertop and open the range oven to a blast of black heat and a stink so strong my eyes water. I cough and splutter while Humphrey waves his Versace suit jacket beneath it, presses the reset button, his face blotchy and creased with displeasure, then slams the kitchen door on me.

  I sift blindly through drawers until I find a familiar bunch of keys and feel my way through the smog to the back door to open it, watching the smoke being dispelled by the growing wind and towards the patio where two of Humphrey’s old work colleagues are puffing on cigars bought duty-free during a recent business trip to France.

  Gerald and Derek’s wives, Roberta and Kimberley, are stood beneath the canopy of the gazebo, sipping Hendrick’s and singing along to electro, Eighties soundtracks emanating from the Wurlitzer Jukebox. I can see them talking, laughing, and moving to the music through the steamed-up kitchen window.

  I stare at the burned steak and charred chips, and feel my limbs tense. I swipe the ruined food into the pedal bin and dump the anodised oven trays into the sink to deal with later.

  At least I can’t fuck up the salad.

  I rip open the bags of ready mixed pea shoots and watercress and shake them into a large ceramic bowl. I grab a serrated knife from the magnet above the steel kettle and slice the cucumber leftover from the punch, adding finely chopped spring onions, sweet peppers, goat’s cheese and olives. I inspect the fridge and realise I forgot to buy dressing. I grab the jar of sea salt and crush the chunky crystals together with some black pepper using the pestle and mortar until both are ground into a fine ash-coloured powder. I sprinkle the lot over the salad leaves and pour a light drizzling of olive oil and balsamic vinegar into the bowl before sifting it with a ladle. Then I peel back the cling film, sniff and add a splash of cider vinegar into a bowl of coleslaw, stirring it to get rid of the offish scent of three-day-old carrot and grated white cabbage. I carry it all through the house into the dining hall on a steel tray. No one says anything, but I feel their eyes on me as I move around the table aligning everything, perfecting the placement of the napkins, and ensuring the proper cutlery is in the correct position.