Chapter Fifty-Four

Ipswich

10th August: The night of the murder

Maria

When Emma called me that night, I had just left Callum’s studio, the taste of him still on my lips. The air in Christchurch Park was hot and still, the August heat creeping under my hastily buttoned blouse, permeating my still-sweaty skin. I was hurrying back to my car, parked across the grass so that no one would see it near their drive, but I’d stopped moving, listened to Emma’s hysterical words down the phone. My sister was at her book club, she’d be back relatively soon – we’d been risky that night. Too risky. I’d never been to the studio before, didn’t want to be anywhere near the house, but he’d begged me.

‘Please,’ he’d said, ‘I need you, Maria. Siobhan won’t be back for hours. Emma won’t notice, not if you come through the side gate. Her bedroom faces the other way.’ He’d lowered his voice. ‘Don’t you want to take the risk?’

I suppose I was flattered. What we had had always been fun, for him at least, and for me it was a way of proving myself, of showing that no matter how hard my perfect little sister tried, she’d never really win. She’d never have the perfect husband, the perfect child. Callum wanted me, not my sister. I enjoyed it, that feeling. It was addictive. I’ve always liked exerting power, particularly over men. I’ve avoided marriage, steered clear of children, but I’ve enjoyed getting the best parts of everything my sister worked hard for. Sex with her husband. A bond with her daughter. None of the drudgery that comes with it.

‘Where are you?’ I’d said to Emma on the phone, confused. Callum had said she was up in her room, in the house. Listening to music, railing at the world like she usually did. Avoiding her family. But she wasn’t in her room. She’d snuck out.

When she told me, I was confused; the Woodmill Road address meant nothing to me. I thought perhaps she was with a friend, or a boy, had got herself into some kind of trouble and needed her auntie to help. It was a bit annoying; I’d planned to go home and pack my bags for France, but she was crying so hard that I could barely understand what she was saying and so I began to walk faster, eager to be away from the park before Siobhan returned home. If Siobhan ever found out about my affair with Callum, I’d lose all of it, you see. I don’t want to end up like my mother, no, I’ve always been a key part of this little family and that’s the way it had to stay.

I made it to my car, Emma’s hysterical sobbing in my ear. Pressing the phone to my cheek, I tried to understand what she was saying. When I finally did, the words made my blood run cold.

I arrived at the flat just after nine. I didn’t think much of the area – it was the shitty part of Ipswich, nowhere near as nice as where my sister lives. There was graffiti on the outside of the building and the CCTV cameras were smashed in. I took the lift to the fifth floor, holding my breath to avoid the stench of urine. Emma was waiting at the front door of number 43, blood all over her hands and her top. I winced at the sight of it. My own blouse was done up wrong, I realised, but there wasn’t time to sort that now. I hoped I didn’t smell of her father.

Without saying anything, I followed Emma into the flat, into the kitchen where the woman named Caroline Harvey was lying on the floor, her stomach soaked with blood and her face very pale. Emma was whimpering, which wasn’t particularly helpful, and as I stepped toward Caroline she made a little sound, and her eyelids flickered. She was still alive.

‘Shall we call the ambulance now?’ Emma asked urgently, but I held up a hand, my eyes on Caroline, stopping my niece in my tracks.

‘Tell me again,’ I said. ‘Tell me again who she is, Emma.’

‘She was sleeping with Dad,’ Emma whispered, ‘she was his lover.’

I’ll admit it was a shock. I felt my face blanch, the colour draining out of it, as I realised just how much of a fool I had been. I’d been no better than my sister, after all. His lover? Siobhan was his wife; I was his lover. That was the way it was.

‘For how long?’ I kept my voice casual, not wanting to show my hand. Nobody knew about my affair with Callum, and it was going to stay that way.

Emma was shaking. ‘I don’t know exactly. Months.’

‘And the baby? You said on the phone there was a child.’

Emma flinched at the words but pointed at the bedroom, her hand shaking as she did so. I followed her finger through the sets of open doors, saw the cot and the small bundle inside.

‘Is it his?’

‘I don’t know,’ Emma said desperately, ‘I don’t know.’ She was starting to hyperventilate, cause a scene. I needed to get her out of there, I needed to be able to think.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘listen to me carefully, Emma. This is what I want you to do.’

‘I will deal with this,’ I said, ‘I will deal with it all. But I need you to leave, to leave now and never come back. Go straight to your room, put music on. If your parents ask, you were in all night.’ I took her shoulders, my fingers digging into my skin. I felt sorry for her, but more than that, I saw an opportunity.

‘Do you understand, Emma? If you become involved in this it will ruin your life. Your mother’s too.’ I bent her face close to mine.

‘I care about my sister more than anything in the world,’ I said, ‘and I won’t have this break her heart. You must promise me never to tell, do you swear?’

Her eyes were so bright, staring urgently into mine. Quickly, I hugged her, pulling her body to me, her arms around the back of my neck. I’d have to wash this blouse.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong,’ I whispered, ‘you didn’t do anything wrong. Now go.’ Emma took one last look at Caroline, prone on the floor. I couldn’t tell if she was still breathing. Then she walked to the door, turned to face me one more time.

‘Speak to nobody,’ I said, ‘go straight home.’

‘What will you do?’ Emma cried, ‘Will you save her? Will you get the ambulance here in time?’

‘Of course. I’m going to sort it,’ I said. ‘I’m going to sort it all out for you. Just don’t break your promise, Emma. No matter what happens.’

I reached for her one more time, grabbed her chin in my hands and tilted it towards my face. ‘I’m trusting you, Emma,’ I said, ‘and I love you very much.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and then she was gone. Well, if we weren’t bonded enough before, we certainly were now.

I took a deep breath, trying to think, trying to make sense of it all and not get distracted by Caroline’s moaning. The flat was weird – a sad, empty little place. None of my interior design eye, though it could’ve done with it. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Emma said; I’d tried not to react, but inside I was seething. Callum had been sleeping with this woman, at the same time as he was sleeping with me, at the same time as he was married to my saint of a sister. I was supposed to be the fun one, the bit on the side. The one who made his life exciting, made the humdrum of his marriage worth living. Me. Not her. Who even was she? Had he been prepared to leave my sister for her? He’d never been prepared to do that for me, never even entertained the thought. No, I was fun Maria, no-strings Maria, exciting Maria. But clearly even that wasn’t enough.

I went over to her as she lay bleeding on the floor. I’d told Emma I was going to call the ambulance, and I thought about it, really I did – I even picked up the phone ready to dial. Caroline saw me do that, and mumbled something, though it was hard to hear as she wasn’t in a good way.

The flat wasn’t too far from the hospital – someone would’ve been there fairly quickly, I reasoned. I felt her neck carefully, using my sleeve to cover my fingers. A pulse – weak, but there. But she’d seen me now. And she’d seen Emma. And she was a bit of a threat, if I’m honest.

So I put my hand on the handle of the knife in her stomach and I twisted it, hard, once, then twice. I didn’t look at her whilst I did it, I’m not a complete monster, but anyway it seemed to do the trick, because she went quiet after that, and when I felt her neck a few minutes later, that little weak pulse had gone. Not his lover any more, then. There’s nothing sexy about a corpse.

I paced around the flat for a minute or two afterwards, staring at her things, the wine glass on the side, the tiny collection of paperbacks, the row of children’s picture books in the bedroom. There were no other signs of a child in the flat, other than a bag of things by the side of the bath, which was still half-full of greying, scummy water. I didn’t touch any of it, but I let the water out of the tub, using my sleeve to cover my hand again, and watched it swirl away. On the side in the bathroom was her mobile phone. I couldn’t resist a quick look, and there it all was. Callum. Callum. Callum. Reams and reams of messages and calls.

I felt angry all over again, and worse than that, I felt betrayed. I stuffed the phone in my pocket, dismantled it when I got home and threw it out with the weekly rubbish. Keeping Emma’s secrets, right until the end.

Her body was horrible – there was blood spooling all over the kitchen floor, and the knife was sticking out of her at an odd angle now after my twisting. Glancing around the living room, my eyes fell on it, and my stomach clenched with anger.

It was Callum’s suitcase. A little black one, stowed in the corner under the TV cabinet. I’d seen it before, at the house, and once when the four of us – me, Siobhan, Emma and him – went away together, two years ago, before any of this started. Before Callum decided one affair wasn’t quite enough for him.

I went over to it, and yep – there was his nametag, bold as brass. Anger curdled inside me. They’d been away together, they must have. Me, I was relegated to quick shags in the studio; he couldn’t even be bothered to leave the house. But she got mini-breaks. In that second, I was glad I’d killed her.

My phone pinged with a message, Emma panicking, wanting to know what I was doing. Think, I forced myself, think. There was the baby, possibly his baby. People took babies all the time, didn’t they? You heard about it on the news. I could make it look like a kidnapping. No one would look anywhere near Emma. Someone wanted to take the baby; Caroline was trying to stop them. Yes.

I pulled the knife from her stomach, getting blood on my sleeve as I did so, and wrapped it in a plastic bag I found in her drawers. Not very environmentally friendly, Caroline, keeping so many of them stashed away. I dragged her into the bedroom, used bleach from her cupboard to clean the floor, wipe down the surfaces that Emma said she’d touched, working quickly, quietly. It was almost quarter to ten, growing dark outside. I stared at Caroline’s face as I moved her, at her boring brown hair, her pale, mousey skin. What was so special about her? What did she have that I didn’t? I couldn’t for the life of me work it out. She was light, I’ll give her that, and I decided to position her just so, make it look as though she was protecting the baby until the end.

I picked up the suitcase, which was empty, and then I wrapped Eve up, really carefully, I didn’t want to hurt her. I used the pink blanket in her cot, twisting the material round and around so that she’d be warm enough, talking to her quietly all the while, keeping her calm. She stared at me a lot, those big brown eyes. At one point, she reached out for me, but I avoided her grabby little hands.

I put another bag around her torso, just to be safe, stop any trace of her getting onto me or my car although I’d already laid a sheet of plastic ready for the trip to France tomorrow – the auction furniture was horribly dusty. For one moment I thought she was going to cry, but thank God she kept quiet. I put her inside Callum’s suitcase, just for a few minutes, upright, her head at the top, with the zip unlocked so she could breathe. I popped a dummy in her mouth just in case she cried, a little pink one I’d found lying in the cot, and then I wheeled the suitcase quickly out to my car, wearing one of Caroline’s coats, the hood pulled up. I don’t think anybody saw me. There are loads of vehicles round by that block of flats; it’s not exactly the nicest area. Not like Siobhan’s road, where an unusual car would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb.

In the car, I opened the case and lifted her out, placed her carefully on the backseat. The car was already loaded for the journey to France the next day – I’d been planning to take over some pieces I’d picked up in the auction house: a bookcase and a lamp, and a nice rug that was perfect for little Eve to snuggle against. She fitted quite neatly inside the roll. It was risky, I knew it was, but it was do-able.

That night at mine, I dyed her blonde hair dark with the L’Oreal I use for myself – no time to do a skin test, but I had to hope for the best! I didn’t know whether there’d be people out looking for her; I thought not if she belonged to Caroline, not until someone discovered the body, but I may as well be on the safe side. I did my own roots at the same time – covered up those pesky greys. The colour change suited the baby, actually. I washed the blood off the knife using bleach, then popped it in my drawer along with the rest of the cutlery. It’s nice and sharp, it’ll be useful for cooking. Waste not want not, after all. It had done its job.

That evening the baby slept at mine, next to me in my bed. She was a good girl, she didn’t cry much, and I fed her milk from the fridge and a bit of porridge that I found in the back of the cupboard. In the morning we were back in the car, ready for the drive to France. It was only as I was backing out of my drive that the idea came to me: the perfect way to get revenge on Callum. It wasn’t my fault, after all. None of this was my fault. I was saving my niece, saving my sister. If you thought about it, I was doing a good deed. And maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to save them both from Callum as well.

I brought the suitcase back with me to my sister’s house in the morning, empty and ready for our holiday. I left Eve in the car for five minutes, dummy in, sleeping happily in the roll of the heavy red rug curled up on the backseat. Nobody noticed as I shoved the suitcase in their hallway cupboard, then beamed excitedly as Siobhan came down the stairs.

‘I can’t wait for you to see the villa!’ I said, giving her a hug, and she rolled her eyes in exasperation.

‘Callum still hasn’t packed; says he can’t find his case.’

‘Have you checked the cupboard under the stairs?’ I asked, wide-eyed, and then he came down, grinning at me in that way he always does, the way he thinks I can’t resist. But I can resist, Callum. I’m not as much of a pushover as my little sis.

‘Good idea,’ he’d said, and he found it in seconds, in the cupboard where they always keep their luggage. For a fleeting second, I saw a beat of confusion flicker over his face and knew he must be remembering the mini-break, wondering if he’d left it at Caroline’s, and I held my breath for a moment. But the moment passed as quickly as it came and he shrugged to himself. I knew he’d just think he’d forgotten, that he had brought it home after all.

I waved at them all, then hopped back into the car, set off for Dover. Eve was good as gold the whole way – I stopped for some baby bits at a petrol station, even made a joke with the woman on the till. The car was locked the whole time of course; Eve was perfectly safe. I felt invincible, to be honest. You’d be surprised how often people get away with things in broad daylight.

If I’m honest, I was going to kill her. I couldn’t see any other way out. I’d make it quick and neat, I thought, dump the body somewhere between Suffolk and Dover. They’d all think it was Callum, that he’d taken her off in his suitcase and got rid of the evidence. But when it came to it, I couldn’t. She looked so small in the backseat, so innocent. I’m not a monster, after all. And to tell the truth, that’s when I began to panic.

We were approaching the Channel Tunnel. I needed to buy myself a bit more time, time to think, but I was starting to sweat and my thoughts were colliding into each other like those magnetic balls on children’s games. I had to get her out of the car. But we were on the motorway by this point, in heavy traffic, there was nowhere I could stop and the Channel was approaching. I had no choice but to keep driving.

The drive through the tunnel was the worst bit; my heart was hammering and I felt sure they’d see the guilt on my face. But I flashed my frequent traveller pass at them, and when they shone the torch into the car all they saw was the furniture, and my coat in the backseat, covering the end of the rug where Eve was sleeping. It was dark; nobody saw a thing and they waved me through, bored and eager to get off their shift. Once I was in France, I could think more clearly. I could make a back-up plan.

I decided to drop her at the remotest hospital Google could find me, not far from a domestic violence shelter. It was risky, of course it was, but at that point I didn’t know what else to do. She was getting hungry; I hadn’t fed her for hours and guilt squeezed my throat. I didn’t have it in me to kill her, especially when she reached out to me, grabbed a handful of my hair. She was a sweet baby – she didn’t deserve to die. So I had to think on my feet.

I found a piece of paper in the glove compartment, scribbled a note in French and tucked it into her blanket, careful not to touch any of it with my bare fingers. Please take care of Delphine. I’ve always liked that name. I tried to keep calm, thanked God for the proximity of the domestic violence shelter; I expected they got babies abandoned at the hospital all the time. She certainly looked the part, now, with her dark hair and dark eyes, and I hoped that with the note, nobody would have any reason to look at her and suspect her of being a missing baby from back in Ipswich. I left her round the side of the hospital; the front of the place would’ve had CCTV, and besides, I figured someone would walk round the side eventually, especially if she cried. The hard part done, I headed over to the villa, just in time to meet them off their flight. Time for the holiday to start.

‘So glad you came!’ I said, opening the doors of the villa with a flourish. I was proud of how nice it looked, and my new lamp was going to be a lovely addition.

I watched as Callum bounded forward into the house, suitcase in hand. I smiled to myself, just a little smile, nothing too big. If only he knew where it had been.

Emma was pale when she arrived, of course – well, who wouldn’t be, after last night! – but I grinned at her, squeezed her hand comfortingly. I suppose she might have taken it as more of a warning because she looked up at me, wide-eyed, but I smiled at her again, nodded my head to confirm it was all sorted. I waited until before dinner to tell her about Caroline – how sorry I was that she’d passed away before I could even call 999. How we’d left it a bit too late. I thought she might be sick when I said that, but I convinced her that the right thing to do was to act normal, come for dinner and play along. I told her it wasn’t her fault. I told her nobody would ever find out, to delete all our texts and calls and put the whole sorry business out of her mind. I told her everything would be OK. I think she believed me, but she wasn’t herself for the rest of the evening. She’s nowhere near as good as I am at playing along.

We had a nice evening, that first night in France. We had some wine, talked out on the balcony. I didn’t drink as much as my sister. I rose early the next morning, pretended I’d been at the patisserie in the village. The others were sleeping, hungover. I threw Callum’s suitcase into the verge, three miles away from Saint Juillet. The dummy, I dropped on my way back to the house. I kicked the earth around it a bit with my sandals, covered it in dust, but I’m not surprised the police found it. They were supposed to.

Then I sat back and waited for the doorbell to ring, for the police to come for Callum. I knew they would eventually, after all.