Authors: Catherine Hunt
The psychiatrist had told her the dream was all about her hatred of being fat. He had leaned back in his chair, half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, and explained it to her at length.
‘Teeth’, he said, ‘are closely linked to feelings of attractiveness.’ He smiled at her, showing all his own sharp little teeth. He looked like a rat. ‘How many times, Annabel, have you heard somebody say, “Oh she has really nice teeth” or “she’s got a great smile”?’
She hadn’t replied.
‘If you lose your teeth, you lose your smile, and with it, your attractiveness. So we can see that this kind of dream is reflecting your own fear, in fact your own subconscious belief that you are an unattractive person. You are experiencing feelings of inferiority and low self-confidence and that makes you very unhappy’.
You moron, she thought, of course I’m unhappy. I’ve just tried to kill myself.
Anna banished the dream from her mind. She had a job to do. Today she would kill Laura Maxwell. Shortly after nine o’clock, she rang Morrison Kemp to fix an appointment to see Laura. Monica answered her call, and within seconds, had supplied crucial information.
‘She’s not in till later so it will have to be this afternoon. That OK for you?’
‘Aah,’ Anna tried to sound disappointed, ‘I was hoping for earlier. It’s just I really need to talk to her, urgently, about Harry, you know … ’ Anna paused to let Monica remember all the bad things she did know about Harry, then asked, ‘where is she? Any idea exactly when she’ll be in?’
‘She went to a dinner with the boss last night and she’s taken this morning off. I can call her at home if you like and get a time,’ Monica offered.
At home. Laura was at home. Anna Pelham could hardly believe her luck.
‘Thanks Monica but don’t worry. This afternoon will do. Say three o’clock?’
It was an appointment she would never have to keep, for by then, Laura Maxwell would be dead.
She had Joe’s collection open on the bed and now she took the used condom out of it and put it in her coat pocket. She picked up a large envelope from her dressing table, and then she picked up the knife and set off again for Laura’s house.
He had laid it all out on the table in his hotel room. The life and times of Laura Maxwell, up to and including her marriage to Joe Greene. Harry had discovered it as he sorted hurriedly through his wardrobe, throwing a few clothes into a suitcase. He had been in a rush to get away from the house because he had stayed there too long and the police might come calling.
He was pulling out a couple of sweaters from a pile when he spotted the Sainsbury’s bag. He almost ignored it, assumed it contained some old piece of clothing stashed away and forgotten, but he knew he hadn’t put it there. He frowned. That meant Anna must have done it, and anything his wife had ever done he now considered suspect.
He took hold of the bag, opened it, and with growing confusion, flicked through the contents. Inside, was the Laura Maxwell collection. What the hell was it and what the hell was it doing in his wardrobe? There was no time to study it. He threw it into the suitcase to look at later.
Now, after most of the evening and half the night spent puzzling over it, he had reached not very many conclusions. Just that his wife had placed it in his wardrobe, that she had done so deliberately and that, possibly, it had been the purpose of her latest visit to his house. Why she had done it, as so many of her actions, God alone knew. All that was certain was that somehow, in some way, it was bad news for him. He thought it was also bad news for Laura Maxwell.
For the hundredth time, he read the letter Ben Morgan had given him. There was no doubt in his mind about who had written it, not a shadow of doubt. His wife. For sure. The million dollar question was why and to that he had no answer.
The letter was clever and calculating, it preyed on all Ben’s miseries and weak points, it was designed to mislead and manipulate him in the cruellest way. It forced him to relive the worst days of his life. It was downright evil.
He knew Anna had written it, but her motive was a mystery. The letter was sympathetic to Harry, vicious about Laura Maxwell, the opposite of everything he’d expect her to say. What possible reason could she have for sending it? He couldn’t work it out, but he knew there was one – a devious, scheming, monstrous one.
Harry had thought Laura Maxwell directed every move his wife made but now he changed his mind. The Maxwell woman could hardly be responsible for this; Anna had done it all by herself. He picked up a print-off of Laura’s Facebook page and read again that her husband was the man called Joe Greene. But this little bombshell just added to his confusion. He had been so sure that Joe Greene was his wife’s lover, but if that was true, why then would she choose Laura, of all people, to handle her divorce?
He went to sleep with no answers and a whole lot of questions and he woke, just a few hours later, with suspicion humming in his bones. He had an idea now why she might choose Laura. The idea started small, but it grew fast until he was sure of it. It fitted her sick mind perfectly. She would get a real kick out of it – hiring her lover’s wife to screw her husband in the divorce settlement.
He fought down the rage rising inside him. He needed to talk to Laura Maxwell and he needed to do it fast; he had a hunch that there wasn’t much time. Harry didn’t trust hunches but this one wouldn’t be ignored, it was growing all the time, warning him to hurry as if there was some oncoming doom.
He checked his watch, just gone a quarter-to-ten. He looked up the number for Morrison Kemp and dialled it from the hotel phone. He would talk to Laura Maxwell, the lawyer he had learned to hate, and tell her what he suspected. She might think he was crazy, or driven by spite, but he had to try. If she called the police, so be it. It was no longer the police that scared him.
His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. If Laura Maxwell really was the cold-hearted, pitiless woman he imagined her to be, then she had surely met her match in his wife.
Monica answered the phone and Harry gave his name and asked to be put through.
‘Ms Maxwell is acting for your wife in her divorce isn’t she?’ Monica’s voice oozed disapproval.
‘That’s right. That’s why I’m calling. I need to speak to her about it.’
‘I’m not sure that will be possible, Mr Pelham. It sounds like there might very well be a conflict of interest.’
‘There’s a conflict of interest all right,’ he growled, ‘but it’s not the one you think it is.’
Monica bristled and her lips pursed. She didn’t like being told she was wrong.
‘What I think is that Ms Maxwell represents Mrs Pelham and she won’t be able to discuss her client’s business with you, of all people.’
‘Look, I don’t give a toss what you think, sweetheart. Just do your job and find out if she’ll talk to me.’
It was just as Anna had said; the man was a pig.
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that because she’s not in the office at the moment,’ she paused, enjoying her small triumph. ‘I’ll pass on your request. If you leave a number, I’m sure she’ll get back to you, if it’s appropriate.’
Harry didn’t want to leave a number. He didn’t trust her.
‘When will she be in? I’ll call back.’
Grudgingly, Monica told him he could try again later, but not until after 4 p.m. She wanted to make sure that Anna got in first. With a satisfied smile she put down the phone.
‘Shit!’ Harry kicked the table in front of him hard. It banged against the wall, papers scattering on the floor. He collected them up and sorted through them until he found the details of Laura’s address in Rooks Green. He wasn’t waiting a second longer.
Laura didn’t wake until late, after half-past ten, when the front doorbell rang. She’d been exhausted when she went to bed but her mind refused to close down and she’d had to take a sleeping tablet. She was trying not to take them because they made her groggy the next day, but they were the only way she could get some rest.
Joe was home when she’d got back from the dinner, thank God. She’d texted him from the taxi, her heart hammering as it neared the house, and then he’d replied saying he was back. Relief washed over her. She climbed out of the cab on wobbly legs.
He was still in a bad mood, and before she could say anything, he told her he didn’t want to talk about the awful day he’d had and was going to bed. Laura let him be; there was no point in telling him her worries about a prowler, not tonight anyway. She had not forgotten the look on his face when he’d heard where Barnes had found the phone. She hadn’t told him Barnes’s reaction or given any hint that the police thought she’d sent the texts to herself, but she suspected Joe had come to the same conclusion. He’d said he believed her, but he hadn’t looked that way. He hadn’t mentioned the texts since.
He was asleep, or pretending to be, when she went to bed herself a short time later. Even if he did doubt her, it was good to have him next to her, to know she was not alone in the house.
Laura wasn’t sure what had disturbed her until the doorbell rang again. She couldn’t be bothered answering it, turned over to go back to sleep, but a stab from her rib woke her up properly. There was a note on the pillow beside her – from Joe, to say he’d gone to work and hadn’t wanted to disturb her peaceful sleep.
She got up, put on her dressing gown, and went downstairs to make some coffee. Sun was streaming in through the kitchen window and when she looked out at the garden and the fields, she found her fear of the night before had receded. The world looked different in daylight.
She ate some toast and jam and wondered what Ronnie Seymour wanted to say to her. Before she’d left the dinner, he’d asked her again about a meeting and fixed to come in and see her at 2 o’clock. He’d said that Harry Pelham was anxious to calm things down; did that mean he was planning to offer some kind of deal? He wasn’t in much of a position to bargain.
The letter box banged and she went to the door. There was one large white envelope lying on the mat addressed to ‘Ms Laura Maxwell’. That was unusual, the post she got at home was usually in her married name of Greene. She slit open the envelope with her thumb, and suddenly, the white envelope was turning red and drops of blood spattered on the oak floor.
Laura watched in shock as blood poured down her right thumb. Inside the envelope were three glossy funeral brochures; stuck to the top of each of their front pages was a row of razor blades. The doorbell rang.
Laura dropped the envelope and the brochures spilled out on the hall floor. She stared at them; stared at the front door.
‘Who is it?’ she called, her voice croaking. Silence.
‘Hello, who’s there?’ her voice, louder this time though she could hardly hear it over the noise of her heart thudding in her ears.
‘Hi Laura, it’s me Anna. Anna Pelham. I’m really sorry to bother you at home but I just had to see you.’
Blessed relief flowed through her, it was so good to hear a friendly voice.
‘Thank God it’s you, Anna. Just a moment.’
Laura kicked the brochures away from the door and opened it half way, tentative, in case it wasn’t Anna after all but some crazed impersonator. But there she was, shy and nervous with an apologetic look on her face. Laura swung the door wide and hugged her.
The hug caught Anna off-guard, and before she could make any move, she found herself being pulled into the house.
‘I’m so glad to see you, you won’t believe what some madman has just done.’ Laura held up her hand for Anna to see. ‘Razor blades in a letter, for fuck’s sake.’
Anna put on her most concerned face. ‘Oh my God, Laura. Do you know who did it?’
‘I’ll tell you in a minute, I just need to stop it bleeding.’
Laura rushed into the kitchen and turned on the tap, running cold water over her cut thumb.
‘Are you OK, Anna?’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘What’s happened?’
Anna didn’t reply. She was too busy drinking in the place where Joe lived; the sofa he sat on, the TV he watched, the inglenook fireplace with the log burning stove that he filled with wood. She couldn’t help smiling, her senses overloaded, she could feel him now in her arms, smell him; for a moment, she thought she might faint with excitement. Then her eyes locked onto the shelf above the fireplace, a thick black beam above the stove, and the smile was wiped from her face.
It was crammed full of photos. The sight of them killed her. There were happy, smiling photos of Laura Maxwell, taken no doubt, Anna thought furiously, by ace photographer husband Joe. There were photos of Joe and Laura together, the loving couple on various holidays and at work dos. Everywhere he was, so was she. She had even managed to intrude herself into a picture of Joe with some of the cast of
Holby City
. He stood among them with his arm around Laura’s shoulders.
‘Do you want a coffee or anything?’ Laura called, getting a plaster from the kitchen drawer.
What was it the bitch was saying? Anna Pelham hardly knew. The rage pounding in her head was like a deafening white noise, drowning out everything else. She couldn’t bear the photo fest a moment longer. With a vicious swipe she sent the whole lot cascading to the floor. She began stamping savagely on the photographs, grinding the heel of her boot into Laura’s face.
Laura heard the racket and ran into the room, stopping in amazement when she saw what Anna was doing.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Laura shouted.
Anna put her hands on the oak beam, leaned her head forward and breathed in deeply to calm herself, to try and get control.
‘You bitch. It’s about Joe. My lover,’ she shot Laura a look of pure hatred as she spat out the words, ‘your husband.’
Laura swallowed hard unable to take in what Anna had just said.
‘That’s right. You heard me. That’s what I said. Joe and I are lovers. Have you got that?’
Laura stared at the other woman, unbelieving. Surely she was deranged. She certainly looked it.
‘You’re crazy. What are you talking about?’ Laura gave a snort of disbelief.