Allyn Allyn - Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

“Trouble with you, you watch too much television,” he would say, and he was possibly right about that, too. Dalziel and Pascoe, Wire in the Blood, Inspector Lynley — you name it, I watch it. And Crimewatch, of course — mustn’t forget the real stuff. “Bet you wished you lived there!” he once sneered when I was glued to Midsomer Murders. “You’d be tripping over corpses every time you went out.”

With any luck, yours, I thought, though I didn’t dare say it. He wouldn’t have seen the funny side, and his temper was fearful when aroused.

But I wasn’t joking, not entirely. Our marriage had long been one of convenience only. I did all the washing, cleaning, and cooking, while Derek... well, let’s just say he found his pleasure elsewhere. His current dalliance was Donna, a leggy blond secretary twenty years his junior, the latest in a string of leggy blond women stretching back ten years. Possibly longer, but it was ten years since I first became suspicious.

Needless to say, Derek denied everything. He accused me of being neurotic, over-possessive, unnaturally suspicious, and a host of other things I prefer not to repeat. And sometimes it became more personal. “Would you blame me if I did?” he would yell. “Just look at yourself! What happened to the attractive woman I married?”

“She got older!” I would say. “Just as you have.”

“Yeah, well at least I’ve made an effort and looked after myself.”

Which was true — he had. He was still a dauntingly handsome man. Though it had come at a price. Oh, he liked nice things, did Derek — designer clothes, expensive cars, gold-card membership at the gym... It was no wonder there was never anything left in the bank.

But it was unfair to imply I’d let myself go. My hair was nicely trimmed (the few white ones hidden by a blond rinse), and if I wasn’t quite as slim as when we met, I was by no means fat; the dog-walking saw to that. And I would have bought pretty clothes if I had anywhere to wear them.

In the early days, of course, I had no proof. He was far too careful covering his tracks. But as time went on he became more careless, and occasionally, when doing his washing, I’d notice a smear of makeup on a shirt or get a waft of alien perfume. (I could often tell when he changed models by the sudden change of scent.) But by then I’d given up confronting him. Instead I kept notes (sometimes names, often just perfumes), and my diaries were full of cryptic entries, things like, Eternity (Ha!) July-Nov 2003 . The motel receipt I found in his jacket pocket I stored carefully away in a box.

Over the years I built up quite a collection. Nothing that would stand up in court, perhaps, though I hoped it would make him think twice about asking for a divorce.

Oh, I thought about leaving, of course I did. But then I would think, Why should I? I wasn’t the one who was playing around. Besides, property in the area had gone through the roof and I knew if I left I would have to move elsewhere. So I decided to stay and make the most of what I had — my house and garden, walks with Alice, the television and books for escape. And, of course, my job, something else I would be forced to give up if I moved away.

Not that it’s anything glamorous. I look after other people’s holiday cottages — keeping an eye on them in winter, turning on heating and hot water before the owners arrive, buying in provisions, and cleaning before and after their stay. But it’s not demanding work (I’ve never minded housework), and I enjoy meeting the people when they come down. Also I can choose my own hours — except when the owners decide on a last-minute visit, as the Ricardos did in February last year.

“They’re forecasting a good weekend,” Mrs. Ricardo said when she phoned on the Friday lunchtime. “So we’re leaving after work and should arrive about ten. Think you can do the honours before then?”

“I’ll go straight round now,” I told her. “Get some heat into the place. Is there anything you’d like me to buy in?”

Milk and fresh bread, she said, the rest they’d bring with them, so I stopped off at the shops on my way there.

A few of my properties are within walking distance, but not the Ricardos’. It’s a couple of miles as the crow flies nearer the mouth of the estuary, but it’s at least six miles by road. Not far from the Sandybanks Motel, as it happens, whose receipt still lay in the box in my wardrobe. You could see part of it beyond the mud flats from the Ricardos’ bedroom window.

The cottage was like an icebox when I let myself in, but a couple of blow-heaters going full blast soon removed the chill. I switched on the wall heaters, turned on the hot water and fridge, and started on the cleaning. There wasn’t much to do, it was much as I had left it after their last visit, and within half an hour everything was spick and span, so I left my usual note saying have a good stay and let myself out again.

The Ricardos had been right about the weather. It was a glorious afternoon, pale winter sunshine shining from a clear blue sky, and the air was crystal clear. Perfect for bird-watching.

It was Mr. Ricardo who was keen on birds. Actually, he was a fanatic. His special interest was shorebirds, which is why they’d bought the cottage. “Does your husband like birds?” he asked the first time I met him. “Not particularly,” I said — at least not the kind he meant. But it made me think about how little I knew myself, and next day I rooted out an ancient pair of binoculars and started taking them on my walks.

When Mr. Ricardo found out what I was doing, he gave me a booklet, with pictures of all the birds I might see — things I’d never heard of, like greenshanks, and knots, and bar-tailed godwits. To this day I still can’t identify most of them, so many look alike, but I do enjoy watching them skimming over the water and poking around in the mud. I even bought a camera with a telephoto lens, and over the months managed some quite respectable shots. My photo of an avocet, Mr. Ricardo said, was worthy of a magazine.

Anyway, that’s how I came to be walking in that part of the dunes after finishing at the cottage, wrapped in my woolly hat and duffel coat, binoculars and camera strung round my neck.

I was on my way back, watching a flock of lapwings through the binoculars, when they suddenly took off and soared overhead. For a moment I lost sight of them and, panning around, I found myself staring straight at the motel. The car park was almost empty but at that moment a red car pulled in, and it flashed through my mind that it looked like Derek’s. Then the driver climbed out and I caught my breath.

He was too far away to see any detail, but I felt sure it was Derek — something about the shape and the way he moved. Even more so when the door of another car opened and a blond woman climbed out. The couple embraced for a moment then, arms entwined, headed towards the entrance.

My heart was racing. Was it my husband? All these years, I thought, and he still has the power to hurt. But within seconds the sadness turned to anger, and before I knew it I was hurrying back to my car.

I made it to the motel within half an hour and parked out of sight in a side lane. The dunes ran almost to the car park so it was easy to find a good vantage point, lying on the sand behind a clump of grass. During the journey I’d managed to calm down, and I felt more like a private eye than a vengeful wife as I adjusted the telephoto. I prayed they would come out before darkness fell.

When the sun disappeared I thought luck was against me, but a moment later the doors opened and the couple emerged. It was Derek, his arm around the woman I now know as Donna, and by the time they climbed into their respective cars I had a dozen compromising shots.