Peter James: The Perfect Murder

Chapter Six

Joan wondered what had come over Victor. That weekend, he didn’t watch his detective shows or potter around in his shed or his greenhouse. He spent the whole of Saturday and Sunday in the spare bedroom. He was busily decorating it for her.

‘For you, my angel!’ he told her. ‘You are quite right. This room has been in an awful state for far too long. Now I’m going to make it beautiful for you.’

He would not let her in while he was at work. He wanted to surprise his angel, he told her. She could not go in until it was finished!

Every now and then he came out coughing and spluttering. He had a breathing mask pushed up onto his forehead, and wore a white, hooded, paint-spattered boiler suit. It reminded her of the paper suits that she saw Scene of Crime Officers wear at murder scenes on the TV news.

‘It’s your favourite colour!’ he told her.

‘Prussian blue?’

He beamed at her. ‘How did you guess? Have you peeped?’

She simply pointed at him. ‘It’s splashed all over you!’ she said with a scowl.

‘I’m putting up new blinds too,’ he told her.

‘They’ll probably fall down,’ she replied. ‘Everything you put up usually falls down after a short while.’ Just like your tiny weeny dick, she nearly added .

Victor did not react to her rudeness. It no longer mattered. After a few nights sleeping in the spare room with the windows shut, she wouldn’t be saying anything rude to him ever again.

They would find the cyanide in her at the post-mortem, of course. But the makers of the paint would be blamed. They would be in trouble for making a rogue batch of Prussian blue with too much cyanide in it. He just had to make sure no one ever found the tins he used, but getting rid of them would be easy.

On Sunday night, when he had finished, he left the spare-bedroom window wide open. He told Joan it was to let the paint dry. She would be able to start using the room from Monday night onwards, whenever he snored. And blimey, was he planning to snore tomorrow night! He would snore like he’d never snored before. He would snore for England!

Joan watched Victor drive off to work the next day in his usual cheery Monday morning mood. He was even more cheery than usual, she thought, despite the fact that this was the start of his last week at work.

She had too much on her mind to dwell on this. She busied herself with the household chores. Later it would be time to catch the bus for her afternoon shift at the supermarket. She needed to put on a good show of normality, so she gathered all Victor’s dirty underwear from the laundry basket to do a wash. She was a little surprised that his boiler suit was not in there. She hunted everywhere, wondering where he might have left it, but she could not find it.

Never mind, she thought, with a wicked smile. With her plan, he wouldn’t need it again. Not where he was going ...

Chapter Seven

Every human being has a weak spot. Victor’s was his diabetes, Joan knew. Too much sugar and he would fall sound asleep. Then he would snore like an elephant, keeping her awake all night. Her plan was simple. All she needed to do was to swap the insulin in his needle for sugar and he would go into a deep sleep. A very deep sleep.

While he was asleep she would inject some more sugar. Then some more still.

Until he stopped snoring. Until he stopped breathing.

She had it planned, to sweet perfection.

On this Monday evening of his last week at work, Victor arrived home and opened the front door with his latch key. He was surprised by what he found. His wife was stark naked, except for a black lace bra and a matching thong, and she was standing in red high-heeled shoes. She reeked of perfume.

‘Aren’t you cold?’ he said. It was mid-February.

‘I thought you might like a blow job, my darling husband!’ she said.

‘Actually, not really,’ he replied. He did not add that he’d just had one at the Kitten Parlour. ‘I think I’d prefer a beer. You look cold. You’ve got goose pimples.’

‘I can warm you up, my darling,’ she replied.

‘I’m warm,’ he said. ‘But I’m worried about you.’

She brushed up sexily against him, and pressed her fingers against his crotch. ‘Let’s go to bed, my angel,’ she said.

‘Thanks, but Poirot’s on at nine o’clock.’

‘We can record it.’

‘I’d rather watch it now.’

She kissed him. ‘Tell me, my angel, if you were to be hanged in the morning, what would your last meal be?’

He thought for a moment, then answered, ‘Prawn cocktail, rib-eye steak, mushrooms, tomatoes, chips and peas. Followed by hot chocolate pudding with hot chocolate sauce. Why?’

‘Well, that’s a coincidence!’ she said. ‘Guess what’s for supper?’

‘Don’t tell me you have all that?’

‘For my darling Victor, nothing less would be good enough!’

Joan thought that the hot chocolate pudding with hot chocolate sauce would mask the amount of sugar.

Victor wondered if she had been drinking. Maybe she had been taking drugs. Or perhaps she wanted a car of her own instead of having to share his?

In your dreams! he thought.

Soon after finishing the meal he fell asleep on the sofa, with Poirot busily solving a crime in front of him.

She texted Don, as planned.

Twenty minutes later, Don arrived at the Smileys’ front door. But the frown on his face was not part of their plan.

‘There’s a problem,’ he said.

Chapter Eight

‘I’ve just been watching CSI ,’ Don said, removing Joan’s arms from around his neck.

‘I like CSI ,’ she said. She liked it because Victor did not. It was too modern for his taste.

‘Yep, well, you wouldn’t have liked this one tonight. It was about diabetics. Right?’

Something about the way he said it made her shiver. ‘Tell me.’

‘Several diabetics have been murdered by people giving them overdoses. In some cases they give too much insulin, in others they give too much sugar. They have new forensic ways of testing. We can’t risk it! We’re going to have to get rid of the body.’

‘No!’ she said. ‘That’s not the plan! We agreed I would call the doctor in the morning, after he’s nice and cold. That’s the plan.’

‘It doesn’t work any more,’ Don replied. ‘They’ll know he’s had a massive sugar overdose.’

‘I could tell them he’s been depressed since losing his job. I could forge a suicide note,’ she added helpfully.

‘Too dangerous.’

‘No one will know!’ Joan replied. ‘How will they know?’

‘Handwriting experts!’ Don hissed. He looked down at Victor and was startled to see his eyes struggling to open. Hastily, he stepped back, out of sight.

‘But where would we put the body?’ she said.

‘Did you say something about a blow job?’ Victor slurred.

‘A blow job, my darling husband? Coming up!’ Joan said. ‘Just wait two minutes for the blow job of your life, my darling!’

She hurried into the kitchen and pulled on her yellow rubber gloves. Then she dashed into the garage where Victor’s tools were hanging neatly from their hooks. She selected a medium-weight claw hammer and hurried back into the lounge. Holding the hammer behind her back, she said, ‘Would you like your blow job now, my darling?’

Victor nodded. ‘Yerrrr.’

Before Don even noticed what she was holding, Joan brought the hammer down hard on the side of Victor’s forehead. She had never hit anyone on the side of the forehead with a claw hammer before, so she did not know quite what to expect.

Looking at him as soon as she had hit him, she thought that she would not need to hit quite so hard another time. Her stomach heaved and shockwaves pulsed through her. She took one more look at him, then ran into the kitchen and threw up in the sink.