Cross Check: The second Posh Hits story Page 7

  Also, thinking about the shufty I had on the Interweb – there’s no way I can use the main route to Hemel Hempstead – because although the journey’s much shorter via motorway and dual carriageway, ie approx one and a half hours, there are bound to be absolutely oodles of CCTV – so …

  … I will obviously have to go via back-roads and sheep tracks. This will take me at least another forty mins each way - I have checked and cross-checked it all on the Marvellous Maps site.

  So if I allow, say, two to two and a quarter hours to get there, park, hang about a bit waiting for the opportune moment to sneak in bash his head in, nip back out, into the car, and home again, I don’t see how I can do the whole thing in less than about four and a half hours. And the slightest thing could go wrong or cause delays and it could end up being considerably longer.

  Therefore, my priorities must be to, a) ensure Mavis and Henrietta are completely out of the frame, so will need to ensure they have an absolutely airtight alibi. And b) although I know this is a bit selfish, but I have got my bambino to think about, I need to ensure that no suspicion whatsoever is attached to me or c) to those I love and d) I am horribly aware that I need to also ensure there will always be someone to care for the children if the whole thing does go utterly to bits and I do end up whiling away the years of my prime sewing mailbags or whatever it is they do now in Strangehollows.

  So I am forced (reluctantly) to accept that I will need to ask Sid to help me.

  I can’t ask Lill, because a) she’s a simply terrible liar and b) I need her to look after Matt and the children. And for exactly the same reason, I can’t ask Matt. So it really does only leave Sid, without whom all our lives would be infinitely poorer but without whom, in a crisis, if we absolutely had to and it was our only choice, we could manage and the children would be safe. Besides which, I know I can totally rely on him to do absolutely anything for me. He’s always got my back.

  Sid it is.

  But now I need to slip into something chic and yet forgiving for a dinner party at the M-B’s. Hope it’s fun. Although, obviously cannot imbibe so that’s a bit of a crimper on the evening straight away.

  Wonder if Lill has any aerosol cream in the fridge? Or any of those tiny pastel-coloured marshmallows? Might need to ask her to lay in a supply. Never thought my antenatal cravings would take his somewhat plebeian and highly calorific turn. But I suppose it’s better than nibbling coal as Lill says she did when expecting Matt, or eating sardine and chocolate spread sandwiches as Jess says she did. Actually that last one sounds a bit yummy – might need to try it.

  Later still – midnight

  Well! What an odd evening! It would have been lovely if it hadn’t been for Sacha hitting on me! Yes, that’s right, that’s what I said! That man is a lech, it turns out. And to think I thought he was so dull and quiet. They do always say it’s the quiet ones you have to watch. Well, Lill says it. And she was so, so right.

  Don’t know how I came to be sitting on his immediate left at the top of the table. It was a bit embarrassing as I had to make an excuse for Matt not being there – didn’t feel able to use the excuse he gave me – “can’t be arsed with these fancy-schmancy posh dinners”. So I explained to Sacha (the creep!) and Madison (poor Madison!) that Matt was caring for the children as Lill and Sid were out for the evening. I glossed over the whole dead-mum-a-crack-whore-dead-dad-a-violent-psychopath scenario and just said that Matt and the children’s mother had separated and that Matt now had full custody.

  Then, of course, Mavis just had to pipe up with, “So how come the little girl is half-and-half?”

  There was an awkward silence. Even Henrietta looked horribly embarrassed by Mavis’s choice of words. Anyway I decided there was no point trying to change the subject so I mustered my dignity and said that the little girl, “Billy,” I said, “short for Belinda – absolute sweetheart, simply adores Chanel - her father was an African Briton, and Matt is her step-father. Sadly she has lost both her natural parents in her short tragic life, but seems to be recovering well from the terrible trauma and is even starting to talk again.”

  That shut them all up. For a brief moment I had forgotten that I was among friends as I sprang to Billy’s defence like a – well - like a mother! (OMG!! I have been transformed by Mother Nature or hormones or social pressure or something equally magical or mystical!!! Who’d have thunk it?)

  There was a tiny pause and then Sacha said, the only sensible thing I’ve ever heard him say, “yes, I’ve met the little ‘un. Delightful child – glad to hear she is getting over all the disasters her young life has seen. What a little Sweetheart.”

  Which was a lovely thing to say but I was still fuming over the hand-on-the-thigh-under-the-table incident which led me to grind the heel of my Jimmy Choos into his instep until I saw tears in his eyes. Hopefully he won’t make that mistake again.

  So all in all, not one of the better dinner parties!

  Later on, Henrietta tried rather uncomfortably to apologise for Mavis’ remark. “She didn’t mean anything by it,” she assured me.

  I gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it for a second, it’s fine, honestly. I know she didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Which of course she did. It’s one of the lies we tell ourselves. And it made me realise that there will be others, throughout Billy’s life, who will comment on her noticeably mixed parentage instead of accepting her as she is and rejoicing in her beauty or charm or intelligence or whatever. And Matt and I must help her to love and embrace both halves of who she is and be proud.

  Time for a quick bath and off to bed. Had a quick peek at the kids – sleeping like little angels. The beauty of a sleeping child is a divine masterpiece.

  Nighty Night!

  Thursday 17 July – 2pm

  So at breakfast, when we were all crowded around the kitchen table, and Belinda was gulping down her Ricicles like a good ‘un, and Patrick had already sorted out a slice of toast and was tucking into a bowl of Coco Pops, I dropped my bombshell. Picking my words carefully, of course, due to the little ears in the vicinity, I said, “by the way, I’m taking on a new project on behalf of a friend. It involves a field trip to Hemel Hempstead and I need someone to assist me.”

  Lill dropped her teaspoon, Sid peered over the top of his paper. Matt just hid a smile behind his mug of tea and watched me with sexy, steady eyes through the steam.

  “What sort of project?” Lill asked. In for a penny, I thought.

  “Actually, Lill, I don’t think this is the kind of thing you or Matt would be suited to. I’m sort of hoping Sid might agree to help me out.” Then I added, speaking to Sid, “but it’s okay if you want to say no, I’ll understand and I won’t be upset about it. I know I’m asking a lot. And there’s always a chance it will all go horribly wrong.”

  Now Sid was watching me closely with an appraising look, his paper concertinaed in his lap. “What sort of project?” He asked. I still hadn’t answered Lill’s identical question.

  “A – uh – um – a lethal one.”

  “You’re bumping someone else off?” Matt asked. I shushed him, indicating with my eyes the two children, who weren’t taking the slightest notice. Nothing comes between them and food these days. I bit my lip and nodded, rather reluctantly admitting that was the kind of thing I had in mind.

  “I knew it.” Said Matt, leaning back in his chair with a distinct air of triumph. “I knew you were up to something.” Then there was a long silence.

  Then, Lill asked, “and why does it have to be my Sid?”

  Whilst at the same time, Matt said, “and who is the lucky winner this time?”

  Just as Paddy said “what’s a project?”

  Patrick is constantly asking these kinds of questions. An intelligent child, he has a normal four and a half year old’s thirst for knowledge. To Paddy I said, “a project is when you do something new and fun and you have to think about how to do it first.” To Lill and Matt, I said, “I don’t w
ant either of you involved, the children need you. And for the same reason I don’t want you to know anything ...”

  “I’m in.” Said Sid. I gaped at him. I’d expected to have to plead with him, explain, tell him all my plans, my research. And then after all that, I half-expected him to say no. We looked at each other across the table and I smiled.

  “Thank you.”

  Lill and Matt exchanged concerned looks. Sid said to them, “it’ll be fine. She’s a good planner, Our Cressida. If she’s put this – um – project together, I’m okay with it. We know it’s not her first – um – project, after all.”

  And that was that. We got on with our mornings. Lill and Matt were clearly a bit concerned, although not angry or upset with me. I just got the impression they either wanted me to not take on my – project – or else they felt it should involve them too. They really are quite amazing. Sid bustled off to do something manly in the workshop.

  Later I went off to the pub as usual to meet Henrietta. She apologised another two or three times for what Mavis had said. She really doesn’t seem able to accept that I’m not offended. In fact she almost seemed surprised – even relieved - that I turned up as normal.

  Later – 1am

  OMG!!! I just can’t believe it! Now, Matt is sulking because I won’t let him help me kill Mavis’s husband.

  “But you’ve already killed Tracey and Mick for me,” he said. I pointed out that I hadn’t killed Tracey. “But you would have,” he said. “It’s not fair if I don’t help you. You’ve done so much for me.”

  I reminded him that this is not a quid-pro-quo-type situation and tried to explain that I want to keep him and Lill out of it. (I know I’ve already gone through all that but it appeared repetition was required) However, he just kept saying nothing would go wrong, it would be a doddle and that in any case it was his right to be by my side, sharing the risk, after all I’d done for him.

  He is such a moron!

  Anyway, I stormed off up to bed and left him grumbling to himself. Then about ten minutes later, when I was sitting up in bed reading, I got a text from Sid, saying, “we bttr do it 2nite so as our Matt not gt invlved. Meet bk door 1.30”. (When did Sid, of all people, get my phone number btw? And I have never seen him text anyone – didn’t know he knew how.) But I think he may be right.

  And it’s 1.20 now. And I still can’t decide which black trousers to wear. The Paul Smith silk ones are a wee bit snug – and I’ll be sitting down in the car for bloody hours! But the Armani ones are too nice to risk spoiling with blood or anything, and the Michael Kors ones are more of a charcoal than a true black.

  Better hurry. Don’t want Sid to get impatient – it would be just like him to come back upstairs and pound on the door! Then we’ve got no chance of getting this done without at least Matt, and probably Lill too, involving themselves. And I can just imagine breaking into someone’s house with the children in tow, telling them not to touch anything! And having to answer Paddy’s constant questions! “Why are you hitting that man’s head?” LOL.

  Friday 18 July – 2.45pm

  I am so knackered – and I have just dragged myself out of bed for a wee and a glass of water – absolutely gasping! Have had barely eight hours sleep and frankly look my age if not a little more – which is a bit of a horror! If not looking better after the bambino arrives I may need to consider surgery! In any case, have always felt my nose needed that extra something.

  On the other hand I feel so light and chipper – such a remarkable sense of achievement! Last night’s exploits went so well.

  Amid dark looks from Matt and frank curiosity from Lill (Sid obviously hasn’t given her the inside gen on our infamous deed), I am trying to sip some apple juice, cuddle both the children (and Darcy, Billy’s new best pal) and write in here too.

  Sid and I left more or less on time, in the end I wore some tatty old Nicole Farhi’s that I’d had for well over six months, so they were practically life-expired any way. Sid was in a fabulously happy mood, the whole way he was singing along to music on the radio, tapping on the steering-wheel in time to the music of his youth, or laughing at some lame joke the DJ came out with. It was as if some ageing hippie of his acquaintance had rung him up and said he was getting the band back together for one last gig. Must try to remember to ask Sid what he got up to in a former life. Though part of me shudders to think.

  Sid drove, obviously. He parked exactly where I’d suggested, so he had clearly taken my research on board, which was most gratifying. He did suggest a few changes to my plans, which I, demonstrating that our respect was mutual, immediately realised would be better than what I had in mind. We didn’t talk much after that – apart from to exchange a few Paddy and Billy anecdotes, until I got weary and nodded off. Then he gently shook me awake.

  It was a bit chilly, even though it is the middle of summer. But at slightly after 3.30 in the morning the temperature had dropped considerably. It had taken us a shade longer than two hours to reach our destination going by all the B roads. The sky was already beginning to lighten, it was the time of night when one’s enemy is traditionally most vulnerable - dawn was coming. Sid stayed in the car, keeping a sharp lookout. The location was nicely familiar thanks to my research. Hats off to the Online Maps people, once again. They really have done an excellent job.

  I got out, paused for a few seconds under the trees to put my latex gloves on then, when I was ready, and certain all was clear, I tiptoed across to the house in question. It was cloaked in inky darkness as were its neighbours. I was able to keep to the shadows without difficulty and am fairly confident that no one saw me either arriving or leaving.

  Sid had given me a set of skeleton-keys. They jingled softly as I tried each one until the door clicked gently and slid open. Again I reminded myself to find out a bit more about Sid’s demonstrably interesting and varied past. I’m sure Lill said he worked in a factory. I’m also fairly sure I’d have noticed if it had been in the news that a skeleton-key factory had closed down. (Then I had to fight off the giggles as I wondered how it would have been possible for a skeleton-key factory to ever close?) Ahem. Back to business.

  I slipped inside and paused in the entrance hall, easing the door closed behind me and waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. I crossed my gloved fingers hoping that a crappy little semi like this would be alarm-free. It was!

  Even in the downstairs hall I could hear the vigorous snoring from the bedroom above. What a racket! I hoped most sincerely that his blonde bimbo was as deaf as a post.

  And so I came to it – crunch-time! To my right was a door into a small sitting-room. I double-checked the room was empty – it may be the middle of the night but one needs to make absolutely certain - before I flashed round with my LED torch and I located the sofa. I borrowed a cushion.

  I headed in the direction of the snoring. Up the stairs, slowly and cautiously, again occasionally quickly flashing the torch to ensure I didn’t trip or bump into anything – safety first!

  At the top of the stairs it suddenly occurred to me that it was just possible there was a dog in the house, and for a second I stood frozen on the top stair in panic. But then, I reasoned, it would have barked long before now if it was going to do so.

  I gave myself a mental telling off and continued on my journey towards the bedroom located at the front of the property.

  Unless it was a deaf dog.

  The door to the bedroom was ajar. I placed my gloved hand carefully on the laminated surface and pushed it open, slowly, silently.

  Or a very old dog. Deaf and old. But still able to bark loudly and still with one or two remaining big, sharp teeth.

  The door swung inwards and allowed me just enough room to enter without nudging into anything.

  I took two steps forward – I was in the room with him, Simon Meesham, Mavis’ much deplored husband, lying on his back in the centre of his massive bed, all alone, snoring his bloody head off.

  Not even a deaf dog could sleep t
hrough that. And I seriously doubted a fifty year old bimbo could either. Still, thanks to me, she soon wouldn’t have to. I only hoped she hadn’t paid out a fortune for a wedding dress.

  I had a few folded sheets of newspaper with me, tucked away neatly in my jacket pocket. But I didn’t need them. His magazine lay on the floor by the side of the bed. Ignoring the lurid photos of splayed legs and cherry-pink nipples, I lay the magazine over his face, ensuring adequate coverage to nose and mouth, and I followed this up with the cushion I had borrowed from downstairs.

  Sid had said if I did it slowly and carefully there would be no struggle. (How did he know that?) There wasn’t. I didn’t even have to press down hard. Just held the cushion in place over the porn mag over his nose and mouth and waited. And waited. And waited.

  You think killing people is going to be exciting and physically active and all mad frantic action, but it’s really not. It’s mainly boring, dull and full of stuff like standing around looking at your phone, timing things and wondering about deaf dogs or sneering at your victim’s horrid decor. I watched each second tick slowly by as I stood there.

  His eyes were closed, I could see them above the edge of the magazine. His arms lay loose and relaxed by his sides. I felt tense, not just due to being in a stranger’s house committing murder, but also from an ache in my back caused by leaning forward to stifle the man. On his bedside cabinet a small clock ticked away his final minutes ridiculously loudly. I wondered how Simon ever got to sleep with all that noise, but then I took in the dreary, uninspiring décor, grey in the pre-dawn gloom and I began to see how he could drift off.

  Four and a half minutes. Four minutes fifty seconds. Five minutes. Five minutes and fifteen. I found myself humming. I couldn’t remember what it was though. Then it came to me – a song from my youth. “Give A Little Respect” by Erasure. As I hummed, I jiggled up and down in time to the music in my head. And I watched the rival time-pieces, my phone and Simon’s bedside clock.