Criss Cross: Friendship can be murder Read online

  Murder is a difficult road to travel. But one must bear in mind the old maxim that nothing worthwhile is ever attained without a struggle. Therefore it is imperative to be utterly committed, to be dedicated in one's approach, to persevere in the face of adversity and to make copious notes so that one may learn from one's mistakes. And of course, it goes almost without saying, each stage must be planned in intricate, even tedious, detail.

  Today I went to my local stationer's—It’s so vital, I feel, that one supports local businesses wherever possible—and bought two notebooks, a small index card box, a set of ruled index cards, and a rather nice fountain pen. My husband seems to be under the impression that I require these items to catalogue my shoe collection. Sweet! And not a bad idea…but first things first.

  Now, I’ve worked out I have approximately six weeks in which to plan and carry out my little project, and still have time for a decent mourning period before we have to be in Scotland for the 'glorious twelfth', my Thomas's cousin Jessica (lovely woman!) always has a house party. Actually this year it’s the glorious thirteenth as the twelfth falls on the Sabbath, and one never shoots in Scotland on the Sabbath. Der! Thomas loves his shooting, so although I'm not a lover of messy pastimes, I always like to encourage him to relax and have a bit of fun, stockbrokers work so hard don't they, and such high stress levels, one obviously doesn’t want them to crack up under the pressure!

  Not, of course, that we would need a mourning period as such, as Thomas hates his mother almost as much as I do, but one must maintain appearances, and I'd need a good week, I’m absolutely certain, to sort out the contents of Highgates—she has accumulated so much old tat, although most of it is stored in boxes in the disused bedrooms, and has been sitting there untouched for simply decades. But it will take me a full day just to sort through the Spode and other china and porcelain in case there are any little gems lurking amongst the dross.

  There are also two rather elderly and smelly cats that will have to have put to sleep, and of course the whole legal side of things to sort out. Thomas will have to see to that.

  Then there'll be the funeral to arrange.

  Now one thing I do think is really important, and that is to ensure a really beautiful casket is purchased. And of course, it's no good skimping when it comes to fittings, not if you want to do the job properly. Brass, highly polished, is the only thing that will do. Not that horrid plated stuff that rubs off as soon as you touch it. That's what happened to Thomas's colleague Miranda Kettle (she’s got the biggest nose I have ever seen, and the smallest chin! Nothing grows in the shade, does it?). She skimped on her mother’s coffin. We all noticed the green stain on the pall-bearers’ gloves, of course. No one said anything obviously, and in any case, Miranda herself didn’t notice. She had her nose buried in an extra-large gentlemen’s handkerchief most of the time, she was so inconsolably upset. Poor woman. Absolutely distraught throughout the entire funeral. Thought the mortgage had been paid off years ago! Such a beastly shock.

  Same day: 5.45pm

  I've just had a bit of a break to think about this a little longer. So I went to sit out on the terrace with a cup of tea. Then it came to me, and I had to dash indoors and fetch this journal.

  Of course, the very thing!

  The scourge of society nowadays: the house-breaker. Or, more precisely, the drug addict, who, as the tabloids will no doubt report, desperate to gain some funds for another few grammes of white powder to snort, breaks into a nice house in an attractive part of Ely in the hope of some opportunistic gain. Then is surprised by a feisty, elderly lady with a bit of oomph about her, and during the course of a desperate struggle, the evil perp bludgeons the poor old dear and makes off with some loot.

  Meanwhile, I could be enjoying a well-deserved break at a health spa in—ooh, let me think—Cambridgeshire, perhaps?

  This might actually work!

  Things to do:

  Purchase rubber gloves, not those cheap ones, they make me itch.

  Ditto black woollen ski mask or balaclava

  Goggles

  Also some black shoe polish (for face, obviously, so must make sure I purchase a 'gentle' formula) as I believe we're actually out of black shoe polish at the moment.

  I think I already have a black (or navy would suffice at a push) pac-a-mac somewhere in the rear cloakroom from that ill-fated walking holiday of 2010—Thomas had wanted to try something different—suffice to say, we went straight back to Antigua after that.

  Oh, and black slacks.

  Next, book visit to health spa. Tell Thomas am going away for a couple of days to a nice, reputable place in Cambridgeshire. Must buy a copy of The Lady in case none of my pals can think of anything in that area.

  Will need to purchase a cheap, disposable holdall for disguise. (Could use a plastic grocery bag, I suppose, but it’s not really me. Also, this might scream homicidal housewife slash amateur-hour and want to look like I know what I’m doing, right tools for the right job etc etc but can’t actually use one of my own in case it’s traced back to me).

  No need to buy a bludgeoning implement, as plenty of scope at Thomas' mother's house. Lots of beastly vases and figurines—some really quite large and heavy and ghastly but without any actual value—and, as will obviously have gloves on, can leave figurine in situ once used, no need concern oneself about disposal of same. Actually leaving the weapon behind looks better from a not-going-equipped point of view. More impromptu.

  You know, I'm so excited. I really think this might actually work. Must just go and fish my little filofax out of my bag to work out a timetable. Then I can start writing in the headings on my index cards. Ooh Goody!

  Tues 26 June—7.15pm

  I had to stop in order to prepare dinner—time had simply run away with me. You know how it is when you get your teeth into a really fabulous new project and you just can't bear to leave it for a moment. Today has just flown by, and I feel so alive! Fortunately Mrs Hopkins had left quite clear instructions about the best way to reheat her venison casserole and had left all the china and silverware and napkins ready, and the lychee and mango bombe just wants five minutes out of the freezer to soften slightly. Such a treasure, if a little rough around the edges. Mrs H. I mean, not her bombe. That is absolutely divine.

  But, blast! Had completely forgotten about the Menzies and the Pearson-Jones's coming over this evening for drinks. Did not even remember to confirm with Mrs Hopkins, so consequently I had no lemons or limes sliced, no crudités chopped, but fortunately there were some left-over dips from yesterday still in the fridge in mixing bowls and covered with cling-film so I just had to fling those into some china dishes. But damn! I had completely forgotten to do my signature borage-flower ice-cubes. I could tell Thomas was absolutely shocked to the core—he raised an eyebrow at me.

  And whilst I was flapping about, he was asking me if I could remember which of the Menzies’ daughters is the concert pianist, and which is the high-class call-girl we never mention. He's so sweet, his attention to detail never fails to astonish me.

  One could hardly risk muddling the two girls up—Imagine saying, ‘Is Georgia still banging the businessmen at Heathrow?’ Daphne could hardly turn around and say, ‘Oh no, it's Saskia that does that, Georgia still relies on her training at the Royal College of Music to pay her bills.’

  Lovely to hear Thomas having a good old chuckle over that one. What a pet.

  Wed 27 June—9.20am

  What a horrid summer! The spring was so hot and dry there was talk of a hosepipe ban and comparisons with the summer-long drought of 1976 and the next moment, when all I’ve got in my wardrobes are strappy tops and gorgeous little floaty skirts, it’s peeing down with rain and freezing cold! We’ve had to put the heating on—in JUNE! What must the tourists think?

  Thomas says if it doesn’t improve by the time the Olympics begins, ‘everyone’ will lose a fortune and I think he’s right—I mean, who goes to the Olympics to sit in the rain?

  Pleasant
evening last night with dear Huw and Monica. And the Menzies, of course. I asked Monica if she knew of a nice spa in Cambridgeshire and she told me about one just outside Basingstoke. I pointed out to her that Basingstoke is not and never has been within the county of Cambs, and that nothing short of a very big civil war would be capable of placing Basingstoke within the county of Cambridgeshire, and frankly I didn’t see it being worth the hassle. She said, ‘Oh? But what about when Rutland became part of the United Kingdom? I thought all the county borders got changed around?’

  And this was before we had any alcohol. So much for a private education. Will have to fall back on the two-month-old copy of The Lady I thieved from my hairdresser’s.

  I finally have a few minutes to myself to try to put together a kind of draft schedule for killing my mother-in-law.

  Yesterday, when I first started thinking about it, everything seemed so simple, so straightforward, so naïve, if you see what I mean. But now…I don't know if its nerves or something—but now it all just seems so terribly complicated. I feel a little discouraged. Perhaps getting it all down on paper will give me a bit of a boost, and I'll be able to get a proper overview.

  Wise to start at the end, so to speak. I'll need a few days to pack; so that means, must be back from cleaning up and sorting out at Thomas' mother's place by, say, August 7th, in order to be at Jessica's on the 11th.

  Which means we must have the cleaning done that week, so the funeral would have to be between 28th July to 2nd August, say.

  Hmm.

  Will have to ‘top’ Clarice at least a week earlier, which gives us 21st July, to be on the safe side. What day of the week is that? Oh, a Saturday. Hmm. Not sure. Perhaps a Wednesday would be better? So the 18th then, it's always good to do things on a Wednesday, it breaks up the week a bit, and also if it's any later in the week, the funeral might get pushed back to after the weekend and upset the schedule, so you know, Wednesday is better all round. I'll pencil that in.

  Added 'tennis shoes' to my list of things to buy, as realised will need to sneak about a bit, prior to the actual bludgeoning, and you can't do that in three inch Italian heels, not at Highgates with all that polished wood. Would it have killed the woman to buy in a decent bit of carpet?

  So, Wednesday the 18th. Hmm. Will have to book a few days, perhaps the Monday to Wednesday. Three days at Chapleys Health Spa (top place for five years running out of a poll of twenty according to Harpers. The Lady didn’t offer much in Cambs although there is apparently someone there who dyes and knits the wool from her own rare-breed sheep. V. Interesting, I wonder if she sells her wares online?) So that’s settled, Monday 16th, Tuesday 17th and Wednesday 18th. Lovely! Will arrange to come home in the evening and have a light supper with Thomas, just in time to receive terrible news. Although of course, am much cheered by the thought that it is theoretically possible I receive the terrible news earlier in the day when in the middle of a seaweed wrap for example—that would be Marvellous!

  I can imagine the shocked looks, the hushed tones of all the staff at Chapley’s. Then me, quiet, dignified, getting into the police car with poor Thomas, he will be handsome and pale, but composed. People will say I’m very brave. I wonder how much a swooning couch would cost? It would be perfect for receiving visitors during those first few days following our tragic loss.

  Oops, must dash. Nearly time for Mrs Hopkins to arrive—today’s her day for doing the floors. Well, well, plenty to think about anyway. V. exciting!

  Same day: 12.15pm

  Gosh, I'm just shaking with rage! In fact am really astonished at myself, can’t believe I am so upset. Must calm down. Perhaps a small sherry?

  Thomas's mother rang. Quelle surprise.

  Mrs Hopkins had just been explaining to me that 'The bleedin' 'oover don' pick up proper an’ it's not the bag, cos that's been emptid.’ Dratted woman. Will ask Thomas if any suggestions or failing that, ring up and order a new vacuum cleaner. In fact that’s probably the easiest thing to do anyway. I’m absolutely certain she sabotaged it in order to obtain one of those new all-singing, all-dancing bag-free brightly-coloured ones. Honestly! Surely that’s why one has servants anyway, to save one all this faffing about with trivialities?

  And just as all that was going on, Clarice rang. She didn't even wait for me to finish stating the number etc when I was forced to answer my own phone due to Mrs Hopkins’s preoccupation with the shortcomings of our cleaning equipment, she just jumped right in with, 'I have decided that I could do with a break, so I'm going up to Jessica's for a few days. You will be going up as usual, I imagine, for Dear Tommy's Shooting, so you can easily give me a lift, there'll be oodles of room in your car. Make sure you’re here promptly at nine to collect me. That will mean we will be able to stop for luncheon at twelve at The Bush Hotel. That will be quite adequate. Make sure you’re not late. And don’t pack the car up too much, l shall have a lot of luggage.'

  She didn’t even waste time on the accepted niceties such as, ‘Hello, dear, it’s your mother-in-law, how are you?’ She just started in the middle then put the phone down when she had finished. And her tone! Really most peremptory. I began a really quite mild protestation, trying to point out something silly like I’d have to check with Thomas—just because I didn’t want her to have it all her own way—and I do so hate it when she calls him Tommy, it sounds so childish and patronising. No one has called him Tommy for twenty years. But again, she just cut across me mid-sentence with all this heavy tutting and in quite a nasty tone said, ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, child, it’s not as though I ever ask either of you to do anything for me. Now I can’t stand about chatting all day, the vet’s coming to worm the cats.’ And that was when she put the phone down.

  Child? I felt like screaming, ‘I’m 32 for God’s sake!’ Really, such a feeling of sheer frustrated rage came over me. I actually think if she had been standing right there in front of me, I could have throttled the life out of her with my bare hands. I'm still shaking, and it happened almost ten minutes ago.

  If she hadn’t already been on my hit-list, she would be right there at the top after that!

  It’s not as though that’s the first time something of this sort has happened.

  How many times has Thomas told me she’s said to him, ‘I suppose you’ll be bringing That Girl with you when you come to see me?’ To which he has variously replied, ‘Yes, of course I shall, she’s my girlfriend/fiancée/wife.’

  And there have been numerous criticisms over the years relating to my hair, my fashion sense, my education, my background. My figure has been described alternately as too thin, too angular, and even, ‘not a real woman at all’, followed by such pronouncements as ‘no wonder she’s not managed to give you a child after all these years.’

  And the last of these was, obviously, the worst of her sins. She took it upon herself, during one miserable visit to her home, to advise him to divorce me and marry someone who would be able to give him the children he so desperately wanted. After all, she said, he’d given me almost ten years, time to give someone else a chance. She’s even tried to persuade him to take a foreign mistress, (an illegal immigrant preferably, as according to her, the woman wouldn’t be able to do anything from a legal standpoint and would be glad of the money) in order to take up the slack as it were. Clarice thinks that money is all anyone is interested in.

  He tried to explain that he loved me and therefore takes his marriage vows seriously as to fidelity ,and neither did he want to divorce me, and in any case, it wasn’t my fault alone that we had no children—he pointed out to her that both of us had difficulties in that direction. Upon which she turned her face away with a disgusted wrinkling of the nose, saying, ‘Nonsense, the Barker-Powell men have always been renowned for their virility, and it would be scandalous to suggest otherwise.’

  Miserable old bag.

  Will definitely book Chapley's tomorrow.

  Fri 29 June—9.45am

  OMG what bloody awful weather! To start with, we�
�ve had to have the heating on in the evenings and first thing in the morning—in JUNE—for a week now, it’s so bloody cold. Then we had two (count them!) hot sunny days, and then yesterday we had the hugest storm. I think the last time I can remember a massive storm in the daytime must have been when I was a child and I was on the stairs at Lady Margaret’s, and with it being all ghastly oak panelling the place was pitch black and Antoinettina Ferguson-Partridgley fell down the stairs and broke three ribs and her collar-bone.

  Yesterday we had thunder, lightning, torrential rain (with the inherent flash-flooding all over the country, thank God we live on a slight incline!) Really it was absolutely biblical, then, just as it started to roll away and the sun was peeping cautiously between the skirts of some clouds, Bam! There was another storm, even louder, wetter and rumblier with hail and everything! Much worse than the first. And if this ruins Wimbledon yet again, I will not be a happy bunny! The grass is six inches high all over the back lawn, and at the front of the house, our drive is rapidly disappearing behind a screen of long, drippy whip-cords of drunken forsythia and rambling roses that are utterly uncontrolled, and I haven’t been able to cut any for the dinner table this year. With the weather the way it is our odd-jobby gardener-chappie hasn’t been able to sort the place out properly. Our grounds are beginning to resemble a council estate. All we need is a set of pram wheels and a pile of bricks and some doggy-doo.

  Which reminds me, must book a trip to London, it’s been ages since we popped into the Tate Modern. We could do with a spot of culture. Or if Thomas doesn’t fancy it, I can ask Monica along.