Where the hell is Robert? The question repeats itself inside Laurie’s mind on a loop as the woman’s mouth opens and closes in front of her like a fish. She doesn’t register what she’s saying; she can’t concentrate. Robert has gone AWOL and it’s all she can focus on – that and trying not to drink any alcohol – and she has a bad feeling about both. Laurie wilts in the biting midday heat and looks past the woman into the crowd behind her with narrowed eyes. Where is he? He’d promised not to let her out of his sight today. He knew this was a big day for her – it was her first public outing to a social event in months, not to mention meeting the neighbours properly for the first time, and he’d sworn he’d be right by her side to help her through the ordeal.
The barbecue is already gearing up into full swing; men of various shapes and ages are gathered around a cluster of cylinder-shaped ovens, flames leaping from the sides, licking the grills and wafting blue smoke into the airless gazebo. Semi-naked children are playing in the heat, scurrying around after each other with water pistols, their shrieks punctuating the chatter and clatter of cutlery and chinking of glass as the women set the trestle tables and prepare to eat, drink and be merry. Merry. She’s forgotten what that feels like. She can’t remember the last time she felt the freedom of true happiness without something to help her along the way. Laurie hadn’t wanted to come to today’s barbecue – or the annual ‘Cedar Summer Sizzler’ as the residents of the close preferred to call it – but Robert had insisted. Besides, Monica was hosting it and she didn’t want to let her friend down.
‘You need to get out of the house, Law,’ Robert had said. ‘Socialise, start interacting with normal people; reintegrate yourself back into the world, into society. You know what your doctor said. You can’t stay inside these four walls forever. It’s not good for you.’ No, and neither had his affair been, or the terrible tragedy that had happened as a result of it. Laurie tells herself to stop. She’s getting morose and resentful again, dredging up negative thoughts, something she has been training herself hard not to do. Moving to 13 Cedar Close was supposed to be a new beginning for them, a fresh start, a chance to escape the painful memories of the past eighteen months. And things had been much better since they had moved here, hadn’t they?
‘It’s just so lovely to finally meet you, in person anyway.’ Laurie finally tunes into the conversation in front of her. ‘Where have you been hiding all this time? It’s got to have been six months since you moved in—’
‘Five actually.’
In her left peripheral vision, Laurie spies a trestle table filled with bottles of wine and spirits and feels the pull of it like gravity.
‘Gosh, five months – did you hear that, Graham? Laurie’s lived here five months and this is the first time we’ve met her!’
Laurie glances at the man who has just joined them, bald and bespectacled. He looks as if he’s had a lot of practice in zoning his wife out.
‘Jessica, I said to myself, you must go round there, meet the new neighbours, but I didn’t want to intrude, you know. I figured you’d be out and about when you were ready. I’ve met your husband though, a few times already. He’s very… friendly…’
Laurie looks at the woman properly for the first time. Her dress is tight, too tight, like someone has poured her into it and forgotten to say ‘when’; it exposes her ample cleavage with a thin divisive line.
‘Where is Robert by the way?’ The woman uses her husband’s name in an overfamiliar way, or perhaps she’s just being paranoid again. He’s very friendly… ‘I thought he was meant to be DJing today? You know, that’s quite an accolade, being in charge of the music – for a newcomer anyway.’
‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?’
‘Jessica.’ The woman’s forced smile looks more like the prelude to a scream. ‘Jessica Bartlett, and this is my husband, Graham. We live next door to you!’ she says with a touch of incredulity.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I know that. I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names,’ Laurie apologises. And lies. She’s actually exceptionally good at remembering names. Well, she was, once upon a time, before the accident. Before the accident. That’s how her life is measured now, before the accident and after the accident. God, she could murder a drink, just to cool off. It’s so damned hot.
‘Well, I suppose that’s understandable…’ Jessica says, cocking her head to one side and casting Laurie a pitying glance, one she recognises only too well. Has Robert said something? He’d promised not to say anything to anyone – both he and Monica had sworn that they wouldn’t. Instead, they’d come up with a cover story between them about Laurie having had an operation and needing to convalesce in case anyone questioned them about her being housebound. It wasn’t a complete lie. But Jessica’s expression unnerves her. She needs to find Robert.
A flutter of panic rises up through her diaphragm. Where is her husband? Laurie feels the eyes of her neighbours upon her like a bug trapped in amber. She couldn’t blame their natural curiosity about the fragile-looking, elusive woman from number 13 who had barely left the house since she’d moved in. They probably thought she was a right snooty cow who thought she was above everyone else, though that couldn’t have been further from the truth. But Jessica was right about one thing: the residents of Cedar Close were close. It was almost impossible to be anonymous and for others not to know, or want to know, your business.
‘We’re a real community here,’ Jessica continues as though reading Laurie’s thoughts. ‘We look out for each other. A problem aired is a problem shared…’ she says, pausing, her voice dropping an octave. ‘You know you can always talk to me… if you ever need to.’ Her head is cocked again and now Laurie is convinced that she knows something. ‘Anyway, I’m dying to see what you’ve done to the house. Monica said you were in the interior-design business before the— Oh look, there’s Karin. Hi, darling!’ Jessica begins waving, bingo wings wobbling furiously.
Out of the corner of Laurie’s eye she sees Monica making her way towards them with a tray of food and feels a rush of relief.
‘Amuse bouche anyone? Lolly darling, go and get that husband of yours, will you?’ Monica instructs her from the corner of her mouth. ‘He’s supposed to be sorting out the music and he’s buggered off back home.’
‘Back home? What’s he doing there?’
‘Yes, saw him go about half an hour ago. God knows what he’s doing… go and chivvy him along, will you, darling? We need him on the decks, get the party started.’ Monica holds out the tray. ‘Mrs Foster made these blinis – amazing really, considering she’s blind. Look at how perfect they are – almost the same amount of caviar on each one. Incredible.’
Jessica pops one into her mouth, a mouth that appears to be permanently open, and Laurie wonders if her husband has been inside that mouth and hates herself for thinking such horrible, disgusting thoughts. She can’t help it.
‘I’ll go and get him,’ Laurie says. She’s relieved to make her excuses.
‘Lovely to meet you, Laurie,’ Jessica calls out to her with a mouthful of caviar, adding, ‘finally.’
Why does Robert always do this, slip away on his own? Laurie thinks as she makes her way across the close. He knows it irritates her, upsets her. Is that why he does it? She tells herself to calm down, not to upset herself. She needs to give him a break. He’s really been trying so hard lately, especially since the move, showing her more affection and attention than he had for a long time.
Putting her key in the door, Laurie goes to call out his name but something stops her. Instead, she takes her sandals off and treads lightly through the house into the kitchen. Robert’s not there, nor in the living room. She hears a muffled voice, faint. He’s upstairs, and it sounds as if he’s talking to someone on the phone.
She takes the stairs tentatively one by one until she reaches the bedroom. The door is slightly ajar and through the crack she sees him standing by the bed, facing the window. She hovers behind the door, her breathing heavy and a little laboured.
‘Baby, listen to me.’ His voice is low, hushed. ‘I swear to you I will be there soon… just a few more days…’
Laurie’s heartbeat is pulsing loudly in her ears. He’s talking to a woman. No. No! It was probably just a client, his mother maybe… He wouldn’t, not after everything… But she’d just heard him use the word ‘baby’, hadn’t she?
‘I’ll tell her I’ve got a gig somewhere up north or something, make an excuse… Yes… yes, baby, I know… Look, it’s not going to be like this forever… Trust me, I promise you… I promise you both… She’s improving day by day. The medication is keeping her on an even keel. I just need to get her to integrate more… No… no… Claire, please don’t cry…’
Laurie feels the breath leave her body like someone has taken a lump hammer to her chest. Robert is talking to Claire. Her instinctive reaction is to burst through the door but she can’t physically move – it’s as if her feet have been soldered to the carpet. Not Claire. It can’t be… Please no… Panic grips her and she steadies herself against the wall.
‘Listen to me, Claire.’ Robert’s voice sounds more authoritative now – there’s gravitas to it. ‘I love you. I love you and Matilda more than life itself and we will be together, a proper family. You just have to trust me. You do trust me, don’t you? Please say you trust me, baby. I want you, and our daughter; I want us all to be a family together. I just need a little more time… She’s still unhinged and I – we – don’t want her suicide on our conscience…’ Robert pauses. ‘How is my little girl doing anyway? Is she sleeping okay?’
Laurie watches him listening attentively.
‘A tooth! Oh wow! Her first tooth!’ He laughs softly, and she hears the tenderness in his voice, a sound that is like a chainsaw to her heart.
Rigid, Laurie covers her mouth with a shaking hand. A silent scream rages inside her head, the noise reverberating off the walls and ceilings. It feels like a scene from a horror film, her worse nightmare realised, and it’s all she can do not to slide down the wall into a heap on the carpet. Instead, she takes a few deep breaths and forces a smile as she gathers the momentum to walk through the door.
‘Robert?’ Laurie says, swinging the door open and watching as he spins round in surprise, almost dropping the phone. ‘What are you doing up here? You’re wanted outside.’
The scallops or the prawns? Laurie is undecided as she peruses the fish counter, carefully studying the shellfish nestled on their beds of crushed ice, mentally weighing up which ones are likely to please him most. Please him. Even now, after everything, she is still conditioned to put his feelings first. A familiar ache rises up inside her chest cavity and pulls at her, triggering a rush of oxytocin. She feels the flutter of adrenaline as the chemicals rush through her body and she puts her hand up to her chest in a bid to regulate her heart’s increasing thud.
It’s an addiction, Laurie. She hears the clipped, matter-of-fact voice of her therapist. Trauma has bonded you to him by a chemical addiction. You’re an addict…
Now she thinks of it, hadn’t they served scallops as a starter for their wedding breakfast? That’s right – scallops in a lemon-and-herb butter sauce. She thinks she might even still have the shells somewhere that she kept as mementos. Perhaps scallops would remind him, jerk his memory back to that day when they had been so happy and hopeful, so in love.
The scallops it is then. She orders half a dozen from the red-faced, awkward-looking teenager behind the counter and hopes that Robert will appreciate them; she’s always been a great cook, when she used to cook that is, before the accident. She wonders if Claire is as adept in the kitchen as she is. Claire looks like the type of woman oven chips were designed for. She was probably too busy with the baby now to prepare extravagant meals – no doubt she orders in most nights. Laurie visualises Claire pushing a pram around Iceland, hot and harassed, haplessly throwing ready meals into a basket and gives a ghost of a smile.
She makes her way towards the checkout – only she has to go past the booze section on the way, past the rows of shiny green and brown bottles of wine and spirits. She tries not to look at them but it’s too tempting. One bottle wouldn’t hurt, would it? After all, this was going to be their last supper together. But oh look – the vodka is on special! Without thinking she is already holding it in her shaking hand, placing it in the basket along with an expensive bottle of Château Margaux. Robert likes red with a meal. Hang on though: she’s serving a fish starter, so perhaps some Prosecco as well then… The bottles make a familiar clank together in the basket, a sound that fills Laurie with a mix of anticipation and shame. She hears her therapist’s words again. Many addicts swap one addiction for another, Laurie. And some people develop another addiction while trying to anesthetise themselves from the first.
She wills her mind to be silent, to stop the relentless voice inside it. She doesn’t look at the bottles, pretends they’re not there as she makes a mental run-through of her shopping list. That’s when she spots one of her neighbours, someone she met at the BBQ whose name now escapes her.
‘Hello,’ she says instinctively. She’s sure she’s noticed her putting the alcohol into her basket. Ah well, after tonight it won’t matter. Nothing will.
Laurie smiles and nods at the woman; she feels compelled to acknowledge her out of politeness. But the woman’s presence mentally pulls her back to the day of the street barbecue, that beautiful, hot, fateful summer’s day. Oddly, she remembers how she had accidentally trodden on a woman’s foot, the blind lady who lives next door to Monica – the one who made the canapés – as she’d fled back into her house, tears streaming down her cheeks. She supposes it’s something of a blessing that the old lady couldn’t have seen the events of that dreadful day. It was more than three months ago now and people were still talking about it. She could tell by the hushed whispers and disparaging looks that were cast her way whenever she passed her neighbours on the street.
The woman walks past Laurie without saying a word and her rejection elicits a stab of misery within her as she makes a hasty retreat to the tills, her effervescent mood all but diminished in the few seconds it’s taken to get there. She stares at the produce as she places it onto the conveyor belt, her heart beating rapidly. Has she remembered everything? This meal has to be her most spectacular. It will be her final parting gift to Robert. He is coming over to ‘talk about the next step’. She knows what this means. He wants a divorce. He wants to talk it over with her, check that she won’t go ‘off the rails’ again and appease what little conscience, if any, he possesses. He no doubt wants to finalise the details, discuss the finances and who gets what, a conversation she has been dreading and one she is going to make sure will never take place. He wants a divorce so he can marry Claire, so they can be a proper family unit. Robert, Claire and Matilda together. The family they should’ve had. Tonight, she’s going to make sure that this will never happen.
The house is spotless and smells fresh as Laurie enters the hallway, yet it still feels as cold and empty as she does inside. This place is far too big for her now. It was probably too big for them both to be fair, but the plan was always that they would fill it, that there would eventually be the four of them. She is painfully reminded of her solitude once more.
And then there were none…
Laurie’s nerves are in ribbons so she decides on a leveller. Just one to steady herself because she needs a clear head tonight. She reaches for the vodka inside the carrier bag, empties it into a glass and swallows it back neat like lemonade. She pours another almost instantly, savouring the burning sensation as the clear liquid slips down her throat and hits her empty stomach. Anaesthetised.
Screwing the lid back on the bottle purposefully, she sets about prepping the meal: washing, chopping, seasoning. She makes a beurre blanc sauce like a professional and rolls the pastry around the beef with effortless skill before placing it in the oven on a low temperature. Then she turns to herself. She’s already been to the salon today for a blow-dry. Her Chloé maxi dress, the one he likes, is hanging on the back of the kitchen door, freshly dry-cleaned. It felt good to have a sense of purpose again, someone to buy and cook a meal for, to look beautiful for, one last time. She takes a quick shower, careful not to get her hair wet, dresses herself in the walk-in closet cum ‘powder room’ that he’d let her design – she’d always wanted one – and observes herself in the full-length mirror: her glossy blow-dry and subtle make-up, the fluidity of the dress attaching itself to her skinny frame. She’s too thin and knows it. The accident had re-triggered her eating disorder, a legacy from her early teenage years when she had been consumed by low self-esteem and helplessness. Her breasts are almost non-existent, but she doesn’t care. What good were they to her now?
She spritzes herself with Thierry Mugler’s Angel perfume, a signature scent she’d been wearing the day of their wedding. He said it reminded him of her.
It’s 7.30 p.m. and the table is beautifully laid, the candelabra lit, emanating a warm, rich glow in the homely yet chic kitchen she’d spent painstaking hours designing to his taste. The Wellington is cooked, keeping warm in foil; the dauphinoise is gently bubbling; seasonal veg is ready to be blanched. The scallops could be flash cooked upon his arrival. She takes the apple strudel from the oven, the comforting smell of freshly cooked filo pasty and fruit filling her nostrils.
Laurie checks the chilled wine, thinks about opening it and pouring herself a glass in a bid to kill the butterflies inside her belly that are dancing like they’re on ecstasy. Butterflies. Only she knows they aren’t real, that they’re simply a potent cocktail of chemical triggers that she has become a slave to. So her therapist says.
At 7.48 p.m. she pours herself another vodka. She’d prefer a glass of wine but doesn’t want Robert to see that she’s already opened the bottle, so vodka will suffice. She throws it back and pours another, hoping the beef Wellington will keep warm. At 8 p.m. the flutters of anticipation dancing inside her guts have slowly morphed into spiteful jabs of fear. Robert is late. He’s probably stuck in traffic she consoles herself and checks her phone, but there’s only a message from Monica that says, ‘Good luck tonight, hon.’ She manages a thin smile, touched by her friend’s support. Tonight will mark the first time she’s seen Robert since the barbecue, an event she would rather forget, a day she wished had never happened, one which changed the course of everything, again.
By 8.38 p.m. she’s opened the Prosecco and is three quarters of the way into the bottle. She feels light-headed, drunk, defeated. The darkness in her mind is creeping in like the night outside, the dim light of hope within her fading almost simultaneously. Where the hell is Robert?
She checks her phone again but there are no messages. Rage suddenly rises up in her like blood rushing to the surface of a fresh wound; all the effort she’s made, all the trouble and expense she’s gone to! That evil bastard! Perhaps he was never really coming at all and it had simply been another of his wicked games.
And then the thought enters her head: what if he really has had an accident? Oh God, a car crash! Panic grips her. She slumps over the kitchen table, stretching her thin arms out in front of her and closes her eyes. ‘Til death us do part,’ she says quietly, over and over again.
Laurie wakes with a start some time later. Her head is spinning; her mouth is as dry as a sandpit. Her lips are stuck to her teeth through dehydration. She struggles to focus in the pitch dark and groans. She’s lying on the bed; she thinks she’s in her own bedroom though she cannot be completely sure. How did she get there? She exhales heavily. Has she blacked out? It wouldn’t be the first time. Shame creeps in and threatens to engulf her as she attempts to prop herself up on her elbows and her fingers touch something cold on the bed next to her. It feels like metal. What is it? She feels for it again but can’t find it in the darkness. It’s a struggle to pull herself up into a seated position, but when she does she realises she is wet, that her dress is sticking to her thighs and her hands feel slippery.
She reaches out in the dark, arms outstretched like a zombie, feeling her way through the room. She needs to find the light switch on the wall. Her eyes are starting to adjust a little now but it is too dark to fully focus. Her fingers meet the wall and she whispers ‘thank God’ as she locates the light switch. Only nothing happens, so she presses it again. Jesus Christ.
Feeling for the handle, she opens the door. The entire house is in darkness. Carefully, she makes her way across the landing. Familiarity, like muscle memory, tells her there’s a lamp on the table at the end near the stairs and she feels for it, attempts to switch it on, almost pulling it over in her haste. It doesn’t work. She curses. She needs water, to rehydrate, and to get out of her wet dress. It’s sticking to her legs… cold and uncomfortable. She tries to remember the last thing she did before she blacked out. She was in the kitchen, waiting for Robert, the dinner ruined, her heart destroyed.
Disorientated, she navigates her descent downstairs, hitching her dress up with one hand, the other steadying her against the wall. The staircase is winding and wooden so she is careful – she’s fallen down them before. Panic swells inside of her as she concentrates on keeping herself upright. She promises herself once more that she will never touch another drop of alcohol again in her life.
Practically blinded by adrenaline, she locates the understairs cupboard in the darkness and is hit by a rush of cold, musty air as she opens it. She’s on her hands and knees now, frantically scrabbling around for a torch, but it’s too dark and her fingers can only find shoes and wellington boots, an umbrella and other unidentifiable objects that she casts aside in haste and panic. She starts to wail with sheer frustration. Her phone! There’s a flashlight on her phone! She races into the kitchen and begins to search the table in the darkness, knocking the empty vodka bottle onto the floor in her haste. It smashes loudly, causing her to gasp and curse but at least she’s found her phone. Laurie’s relief is almost palpable as she presses it with shaking fingers. Flooded with emotion she starts to cry as it comes on. She has just 7% left on the battery. It will be enough.
Switching the flashlight on she races back to the understairs cupboard and locates the electric box. As she suspected, the switch looks like it has tripped out and she flicks it back up. Light violently floods her vision, causing her to cover her eyes with her hand. She stands back against the wall, exhaling deeply, her head pounding, her whole body visibly sagging with exhaustion and relief. And that’s when she realises, as she looks down at herself, that she is completely covered in blood.
‘Afternoon, boss. Did I wake you?’
Davis’s voice is almost irritatingly chirpy. I’ve been awake for a while but I don’t let her know this.
‘What time is it?’ I roll over, check my watch. It’s 11.06 p.m. I pull the duvet back and roll my feet onto the carpet, thinking it could do with a clean, or a good vacuum at least. It’s cream, the carpet, and shows every speck of dirt, but it was what Rachel wanted. ‘Wooden floors everywhere else but the bedroom,’ she’d said. There are still some of her feminine touches left: the chandelier and the ornate mirror above the dressing table; the fluffy sheepskin rug at the end of the bed; the floral duvet that I haven’t washed in weeks and the curtains that match it. But gradually she has disappeared, bit by bit, and I can feel the place becoming more and more of a bachelor pad, growing shabbier and more unkempt. Like most women, she held the place together. I have neither the time, nor the inclination for home decor now she’s gone.
‘Late,’ Davis says. I groan inwardly. I don’t sleep well these days, and even when I do manage some shut-eye I’m plagued by dreams – vivid and colourful dreams, practically psychedelic – that leave me feeling exhausted when I wake up.
I yawn, scratch my head, get a whiff of my own sour breath. I’m anticipating what Davis is about to tell me, simultaneously wondering whether I’ll have the chance to treat myself to a shower.
‘Go on…’
‘Homicide, boss. Body up on Cedar Close, number 13, male victim. Robert Mills, thirty-nine. The call’s just come in.’
‘From who?’
‘The wife.’
‘The wife found him?’
‘She made the call. We’re on our way down there now.’
‘You said homicide…’
‘His throat’s been cut, boss, sliced open at the neck, and he’s got multiple stab wounds. The wife was hysterical. Looks like a domestic. You need to get down there. Woods has requested that you—’
‘Who’s already on the scene?’ I cut her off mid-sentence.
Davis pauses, which fills me with dread as I think I already know what she’s going to say next.
‘Martin, boss.’
I close my eyes and silently curse. Delaney. It would have to be Delaney. I haven’t seen him since the ‘Goldilocks’ case that we worked on together, finding a female serial killer. It still plagues my dreams sometimes, and it almost cost me my job, forcing me to take a sabbatical. When I returned to the nick, he’d been posted somewhere else and I felt all the better for it if I’m honest, and I always try to be. I didn’t like Delaney instinctively on sight, and there’s not many people I can say that about on the force, or in any other area of my life. I usually get to know someone a little first before I decide not to like them. He was an exception to that rule. I picture his smug, self-satisfied, handsome face and feel deflated that I’ll soon be reacquainted with it.
‘Right you are. Number 13 you say?’
‘Yes, Gov. Unlucky for some.’
Unlucky for Robert Mills by the sounds of things.
‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it!’ Kiki looks up at her mother’s face bearing down on her. It’s contorted in anger, red with rage.
‘. . .
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