How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery (11 page)

‘Honey, there’s nothing a life coach could tell me that I don’t already know.’

She was in the ensuite removing her make-up, her eyes two reproachful islands in a sea of cleansing foam.

‘How do you know if you’ve never been to one?’

‘I know enough about them to know what they talk about.’

‘It’s not the same as actually going to one. And I know that if you were willing to go, I could talk Mum and Dad into footing the bill.’

‘That’s very generous of them. But I really don’t need one. I’m sure if I keep slogging away things will fall into place.’

She splashed water on her face and towelled it dry. ‘But that’s the point – things don’t just fall into place. You have to get out there and make them happen.’

‘That’s what I’m doing.’ He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. The thin silk of her nightdress was soft against his skin, hinting of the more alluring softness underneath. ‘And if you tell me to put it out to the universe, I’ll have to deal with you as I see fit.’

His cock grew hard as he hugged her body against his. She struggled out of his grip. ‘Don’t, I’m not in the mood.’

He dropped his arms. ‘So you’re angry at me because I won’t go to a life coach.’

‘It’s not just that, you’re so stubborn, you won’t listen to anybody. You think you know it all.’

‘That’s not true, I – ’

‘I’m tired, I’m not in the mood for an argument.’ She got into bed and burrowed down under the sheets.

Reuben gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Not in the mood for sex, not in the mood for an argument, you used to be such a fun person.’

She didn’t reply and in a couple of minutes she was asleep, hunched in a ball with her back to him. Reuben lay awake staring into the darkness. It was the first time she’d rejected his advances. Was it a significant milestone? Did it happen in all marriages? Surely not after two-and-a-half months.

But at the moment he had a more pressing problem. He wished he’d never set foot in the Edinburgh Arms and that he’d never run into Frank Cornell. Could he pretend he hadn’t, that it was all just a bad dream?

He saw Lucy lying on the floor of her home, eyes frozen in horror, neck sliced by a deep gash and rivers of blood streaming onto her chest. Or dumped in a dingy alley amongst the industrial bins, as lifeless as an abandoned doll, a gunshot wound to her head. No, damn it, he couldn’t pretend ignorance.

***

When he awoke, he felt as if he’d been churning round all night in a giant washing machine. But at least he’d come to a decision.

‘What are you doing today, honey?’ Carlene asked. She was back to her normal self, rifling through her wardrobe for the hundredth time as she tried to decide what to wear to work.

‘Just the usual – slay a few dragons, ravish a few maidens, then after breakfast I’ll do the really exciting stuff.’

‘Like vacuuming?’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of the usual job searching, but vacuuming sounds more fun.’

Carlene stepped into a black skirt, wiggled it over her hips and zipped it up. Then she turned back to the wardrobe and peered into it again, as if expecting some item of clothing she hadn’t seen before to suddenly manifest itself.

‘I’m sure a man of your capabilities could do both in one day,’ she said, slipping on the first blouse she’d taken out of the wardrobe and buttoning it up.

‘Oh shit!’ Reuben remembered he’d decided to start jogging today. He bounded out of bed, pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, laced up his joggers, picked up his keys and gave his startled wife a smacking kiss on the lips.

‘Going for a run. See you tonight.’

‘Can you pick up some steak for dinner?’ she called after him.

The morning was overcast and a bitter August wind whipped around him. He picked up his pace to stop himself from freezing solid. As he took a circuitous route around the suburban streets, faces peered at him from front yards or from the windows of passing cars. His aching legs and burning lungs diverted his attention from his woolly head. He was now a bona fide member of the panting, red-faced, masochistic fraternity he had disparaged until yesterday when he’d decided to join them. Joggers, he’d always maintained, were ruining their bodies and would end up in middle age with dicky knees and shin splints. And if it were so enjoyable, why did they always look as if someone was shoving a hot poker up their backside?

As he burst in through his front door and collapsed in a sweaty heap on the bed, he realised that both those points were irrelevant. At this rate he’d die of agony before middle age and having a hot poker shoved up his backside would at this moment be a welcome respite.

He forced himself off the bed, showered and dressed. Over coffee and toast he considered his decision – if ‘decision’ was the right word. It was a wimpy imitation of a decision, borne not from courage but desperation and cowardice. He had to let Lucy know her life was in danger. But not by telling her outright – which would put his life in danger – and not by giving her enough information to justify her going to the police. He had to let her know in a subtle way that she should be careful.

He didn’t have a clue how he was going to do it. He was tempted to take the easy way out and send Lucy an anonymous warning letter. But that would attract attention and undoubtedly police involvement. He’d have to do it in person. His next appointment with her wasn’t until next Tuesday, so he had a week to figure it out. And to hope to God Frank didn’t do anything before then.

CHAPTER 10

‘How are you today, Reuben?’

‘Fine, thanks.’

Lucy gave him a quick glance as she fired up the computer. ‘You look tired. Are things okay with you?’

He couldn’t argue with her first comment. Thinking about his appointment today and what he was going to say had kept him awake – that and Carlene’s snoring, which according to her, was a figment of his overactive imagination. In the end, he reminded himself of one of the maxims of his previous career: success depended on knowing when to plan and when to wing it. And this was a time to wing it.

Lucy, on the other hand, was looking delicious in a fresh white blouse and rose pink, hip-hugging skirt. Crisp yet soft at the same time, like a strawberry donut topped with cream. But whereas overindulging in donuts could make you sick, with Lucy, you’d just keep wanting more....

‘I’m okay. I guess the strain of looking for work is catching up with me.’

Jesus, cut the self-pity crap.

‘But there’s some good news. I enrolled with a promotions agency and did an audition. The manager thinks she can get me some modelling work.’

Lucy raised an eyebrow. ‘Really? That’s something ... different.’

Why the hesitation? Did she think he wouldn’t make it as a model? For one of the few times in his life he felt self-conscious. He shifted in his chair.

‘I suppose it is. It’s a starting point, though.’

‘Of course it is. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great, you never know what it will lead to. It’s certainly not something I can see any of my other offenders doing.’

Was that a compliment or not? Then she smiled at him, warmth shining from her eyes like the sun glancing off the ocean. His heart almost burst out of his chest.
I’ll take it as a compliment.

She asked him a few more routine questions then reached for her appointment pad. ‘You seem to be going fine, I’ll make an appointment for another two weeks.’

He watched her print the date on the appointment slip.
Say something now. It’s your only chance.

‘You know, in another life, I’d like to have been a parole officer.’

She looked up. ‘Really?’

‘I think it’d be interesting – all the different types of people you meet.’

‘That’s certainly true.’

‘And some of them must be dangerous – not the sort you’d want to meet in a dark alley.’

Lucy handed him the appointment slip. ‘Dark alleys aren’t promising places to meet anybody.’

As he signed the slip, he said with studied casualness, ‘So I suppose you have to be really careful not to expose yourself.’

Whoops, Freudian slip.

‘I mean, you’d have to avoid situations where you could run into those dangerous types.’

She looked at him as he handed her back the appointment slip. ‘Is there a point to this conversation?’

There was a cool edge to her tone.
You’ve blown it. She thinks you’re an idiot.

But I’ve got to keep going. I’d rather her think me an idiot than be dead
.

Reuben mustered up his most charming smile. ‘Not as such. Not really a point. It’s just that I know a lot of offenders hate the so-called “system” - not me, of course - and that includes parole officers, and I assume you have to be extra careful in case one of them decides to ... er ... get really nasty.’

She tore out his copy of the appointment slip and handed it to him. ‘I really don’t think there’s any need...’

‘The reason I brought it up,’ he interrupted, an idea suddenly flashing into his mind, ‘was that I read the other day about this case in the U.S. where a guy had a grudge against his parole officer and he hired a hit man to run her down. Did you hear about that?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘That made me wonder if the same thing could happen here.’

Jesus, you’re making it sound like a threat. She’ll report you now.

‘That’s why I was concerned,’ he finished and smiled again to reassure her that hiring a hit man was the last thing on his mind.

‘I appreciate your concern,’ Lucy said, ‘but I don’t think you should lose any sleep over it.’

She gave him a curious look. ‘Unless you have some specific information.’

Reuben shook his head. ‘No. Just thought you’d be interested in the case.’

She stood up and he did likewise. ‘See you in a fortnight,’ he said.

He was out the door and about to close it when Lucy said, ‘Reuben!’

He turned back, heart racing. She suspected something, was going to demand he give her the information.

‘Where did you read about it?’

Reuben looked thoughtful. ‘I think it was on the internet, maybe one of the online newspapers. Was it in California? Or maybe it was Alabama.’ He shrugged. ‘I forget which state.’

‘Thanks,’ Lucy said. ‘See you next time.’

***

When he arrived home, a large brown packet was sticking out of the letterbox. He pulled it out, unlocked the front door, went inside and flopped onto the couch. The packet was from Pizzazz Promotions; presumably it contained his photographs. He sat staring at it, reliving his interview with Lucy.

It had been pointless, had achieved nothing, apart from making her think he was weird. When it came to the crunch and she’d asked him if he had any specific information, he couldn’t tell her. Anyway, if he had no idea how Frank planned to do the deed, how could he warn her?
Just to be on the safe side don’t go anywhere after dark, avoid sidewalks, city streets, crowds, uninhabited places – in fact, just lock yourself in the house and don’t answer the door.

What now? He opened the packet and slid out the photos. Apart from the inevitably contrived look of studio photos, they were good, enhancing the boy-next-door demeanour that had been the backbone of his success, the type a woman could take home to her mother – except Nancy, who would remain unmoved if George Clooney appeared before her and started grovelling at her feet. Reuben automatically sucked in his stomach as he looked at the photos taken of him shirtless. He’d started doing sit-ups as well to tighten his stomach muscles – one hundred every afternoon. Just as boring and painful as his morning jogs, but mercifully, much shorter. The things you had to do when you wanted to be in showbiz.

He hadn’t heard from Posie in the week since he’d registered. There was no way he was going to be ripped off, like Carlene’s friend, and become just another name in the database. He’d ring Posie every week until she got so sick of him, she’d give him a job to shut him up.

He got up and went to the phone on the kitchen bench. The orange message light was flashing. He pressed the play button.

‘This is Kurt from the employment agency. Ring me on...’ A mobile number followed.

The voice was vaguely familiar but he didn’t know anyone called Kurt. Maybe he was new, a replacement for Droopy Dave. Maybe Reuben had caused Droopy Dave to go on stress leave, a ‘positive outcome’ indeed.

He dialled the number. ‘Littledick. You’re prompt. An admirable quality.’

Reuben’s skin prickled. How the hell did Frank Cornell get his phone number? It was listed under Carlene’s maiden name of Rutherford, as she’d organised the phone connection before he was released from prison. And he had an inkling that Frank wasn’t phoning to invite him out for a friendly drink.

‘I have a business proposition for you.’

‘I’m not in the market for a business proposition at the moment,’ Reuben said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

‘I guarantee you’ll be interested in this one.’

‘Why is that?’

‘It’s not something I can discuss on the phone. Meet me on Sunday, at 2pm, at The Grosvenor in the city. Public bar.’

CHAPTER 11

The radio alarm blared into the morning silence. Reuben reached out and fumbled for the ‘off’ switch. What day was it? Saturday. Thank God. He’d forgotten to switch the alarm off last night.

‘Are you going for your jog?’ Carlene mumbled into his shoulder.

‘No, I’m giving myself the weekend off.’

‘Good.’

She pressed her warm body into his back, slipped her arm under his and began to circle her fingers in his chest hair. ‘So what are your plans for this morning?’

‘I don’t have any.’ Her fingers moved down to his belly with feather-light strokes. ‘But I do now.’

He turned over onto his back, pulled her down to him and they kissed – a slow, lazy kiss, that got his nerve endings pinging and his cock springing to attention.

‘I thought,’ Carlene murmured when they came up for air, ‘we could go shopping later.’

‘Keep talking dirty to me, baby. I love it.’

She was stroking his pubic hair now, her fingers almost on his cock. He caressed her breasts and circled her nipples, watching them grow hard.