I clambered to my feet and indulged myself with one lingering look towards Janine’s motionless body. Everything that evil bitch had put me through almost felt worth it in order to steal her last breath.
I needed to act fast. I used the hammer to break the padlock that separated the appointments room from the derelict building next door. I wiped her blood from my face, ear, neck, hair and chin with a packet of wet wipes, then from behind the sofa I removed a bag with an identical set of clothing to that I was wearing and changed. I dropped the soiled clothes, my notebook and Tony’s gloves into a bin liner, slipped on a pair of latex gloves and left Janine’s body to begin livor mortis and her brain cells to die. I left the door ever so slightly ajar.
Inside the neighbouring building, I affixed a new padlock to the door to delay the inevitable police search. The torch on my phone guided me through the darkened corridors until I reached the rear entrance. With two firm whacks, I broke the lock to the rear door, then dropped the murder weapon on the floor. And, after double-checking I’d missed nothing, I left the building. I removed the pair of man’s-size running shoes I’d been wearing to leave impressions on the dusty floor, and slipped my own back on. I screwed up a photograph and tossed it into an overgrown grass verge. Then I slid open a one-way bolt on the gate, put the latex gloves in my bag, clutched the bin liner, checked the alleyway was clear and walked home.
Once there, I threw both sets of clothes I’d worn that day on a hot wash – the first of three cycles I’d put them through – while I showered. Tony’s gloves and running shoes had been buried in a shoebox in the field behind the house.
Then I sat at the breakfast bar in my cosy dressing gown and slippers, and poured myself a glass of Rioja. There was still so much to be done, so I started typing a list on my phone. As a company director for Tony’s insurance brokers, I earned a regular monthly wage for doing nothing but remaining quiet about where we’d found the money to fund the business in the early days. So, first I would hire a decorator to repaint and paper the walls scarred by the fire, then I’d have to find a gardener to bring the overgrown rear garden into some semblance of order.
I’d need a glazier to replace the boarded-up bifold doors that Ryan had smashed, then make an insurance claim. I’d probably earn some compensation from him when it went to court. Then once the house was back to how it used to be, it’d be ready for Tony and the girls to move back in.
I put my phone on charge, ready for the influx of calls I was soon to receive about Janine’s death. ‘Oh my God, no,’ I said out loud in many different ways until I found a tone that sounded believable.
I glanced at the clock on the oven; Janine must have been discovered by now. The police were likely already there, and waiting for a forensics team to suit up and search our building along with the premises next door. That’s where they’d find the hammer I’d stolen from Ryan’s flat when the estate agent wasn’t looking. I’d spotted it on a sideboard and was careful to slide it into my bag using only the sleeve of my jacket. Tests would reveal it to be covered in Janine’s blood, hair and skin, and Ryan’s fingerprints.
In an autopsy, the contents of her stomach would reveal she’d been drugged, but she ate so much and so frequently it’d be hard to tell how they’d got into her system. And as everyone knew, she refused to eat my glutinous pastries. So I’d be safe.
Outside in the yard, they’d find a screwed-up photograph of me that I’d torn from the walls the night I went to ‘Steven’s’ cottage. In a panic, I’d stuffed some into my pockets before he confronted me. I hoped it might be covered in Ryan’s fingerprints and an invisible tracking code linked to the serial number of his printer – or, even better, his prints on the adhesive tape. It wouldn’t contain mine, though. I’d worn gloves.
Ryan’s vendettas against me, End of the Line and Effie were already on record with the police and the school. Judging by the number of Facebook likes and shares my posts had received, hundreds of people across the community had watched the video of him breaking into my house and witnessed how violent he was. And there was proof in the diary that he’d made an appointment to see Janine this afternoon.
Ryan and Janine. Two birds killed with the same stone. Well, the same hammer.
I became excited when my phone began to vibrate, but it was Effie’s name that appeared on the screen.
‘Hi, darling, I’m expecting an important call. Can I give you a ring later?’
‘How could you, Mum?’ she sobbed. ‘Everyone at school knows I made that recording. They all hate me and say I had sex with Mr Smith. They’re calling me a slag and saying I led him on.’
‘Ignore them, darling. In situations like this, it’s always the woman who gets the blame.’
‘But I am to blame, aren’t I?’
‘It’s not as simple as that, Effie. There are things you’re too young to understand, things that he’s done that we can’t let him get away with.’
‘I don’t care!’ she cried. ‘You’ve ruined my life. I don’t ever want to see you again.’
‘Effie, please don’t be like that. Why don’t I meet you for a coffee tomorrow and—’
‘No! I’m going to tell Dad what you made me do.’
‘Before you do that, remember one thing,’ I replied calmly. ‘You started all of this. Your silly schoolgirl crush began this chain of events. Your precious father is already embarrassed by the trouble you’ve caused him, so I can only imagine what this will do to him. And when the police and the school find out how you lied, you’ll have to move schools again and probably face criminal charges for your false accusations. There’s not much your dad can do to protect you from that. But you’re old enough now to be put into a young offenders institute, aren’t you? God knows how you’ll survive that. So ahead of telling your father about my involvement, I’d think long and hard about the repercussions first.’
She fell silent. ‘You have to remember, Effie – you and I are cut from the same cloth. You are your mother’s daughter. There is so much you can learn from me.’
I was so angry with her that I didn’t give her the opportunity to reply. Instead, I hung up and knocked back my glass of wine. All this I had done for her, for all of us, but she was too self-centred to appreciate it. The more I thought about it, the more my blood boiled.
Whether Effie liked it or not, nothing was going to stop me from getting my whole family back under one roof again. Nothing.
CHAPTER THIRTY
RYAN