Peter James: The Perfect Murder

2.59 a.m.

Then 3.00 a.m.

Then 3.01 a.m.

She turned on the television. There was a medium she recognized, talking to a studio audience. ‘I have someone with me called Mary,’ he said. ‘Is there anyone here who has recently lost someone called Mary?’

Normally, she liked these shows. But tonight it made her uneasy.

She switched channels. Big Brother. Two young men and a fat blonde girl were sitting in a giant ashtray, smoking. She listened to their chatter for some minutes, then switched channels again. An old movie was playing. Glenn Close was in her house. Suddenly, a black, gloved fist smashed a window and opened the door from the inside.

She hastily switched channels once more. Then looked at the clock again.

3.14

She needed to pee. All that damned coffee! She got out of bed, padded out of the room and into the bathroom. She peed, then went to the basin to rinse her hands.

And froze.

Two long, black strands of Victor’s hair were lying there.

Chapter Eleven

‘You imagined it!’ Don said when he came round at nine o’clock in the morning.

‘No, Don, I did not,’ Joan said. Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly open the tin of cat food. ‘I did not imagine it!’

‘Of course you did. Your nerves are all shot to hell!’

Her eyes felt raw from lack of sleep. There was a tight band across her scalp. ‘I did not imagine it! I looked in the pedal bin and the hairs I took out were still there, in the tissue.’

She scraped the stinky cat food out of the can into Gregory’s bowl and put it on the floor. As usual, the cat glared at the bowl, and then at her, as if suspecting poison.

‘You must have missed them, love,’ Don said. ‘We were both tired!’ He put his arms around her and hugged her tightly. Then he nuzzled her ear. ‘Let’s go to bed, I’m feeling really horny.’

She pushed him away. ‘I did not miss those hairs. And we can’t go to bed. I have to go to the police, like you told me. And I have to go to work. You said we have to act normal.’

‘Yeah, normal ! So let’s go to bed. That would be normal .’

‘Not with Victor in the freezer, no way!’

‘Come on, angel. We did this so we could be together.’

She looked at him. ‘I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. I don’t feel in the mood. Okay?’

They stared at each other in silence.

‘It’s all right for you, Don. You went home to your little wifey. I had to stay here alone with my husband in the bloody freezer.’

‘Yeah, right, so?’

‘So?’ she repeated, her anger rising. ‘So? Is that all you can bloody say?’

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you too. We – we just have to—’

‘To what?’

She shook her head. Tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘You have to help me, Don.’

‘We have to stay calm.’

‘I AM BLOODY CALM!’ she yelled.

He raised his big hands and stood there in front of her. A big tall guy, in his brown leather jacket over a white T-shirt, jeans and suede boots, he was all manly. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay!’

‘It’s not okay!’

‘So, we have to make it okay. Right?’ He held her in his arms again.

‘Right,’ she whispered. ‘The plan. We have to stick to the plan.’

‘We’ll stick to the plan,’ he said. ‘So you mustn’t get freaked out by two hairs you missed in your basin. Deal?’

‘Deal,’ she agreed glumly.

Half an hour later, Joan drove to Brighton Police Station. Victor’s purple Vauxhall Astra convertible had been an eBay bargain three years ago. She parked at a meter and went in through the front door. There was a second door marked IN, with a short queue on the far side of it.

She joined the queue, and as she waited she read some of the notices on the walls. One was headed MISSING PERSONS. There were several photographs, close-ups of faces, with the same wording at the bottom of each one: IF YOU HAVE SEEN THIS PERSON PLEASE CONTACT YOUR NEAREST POLICE STATION.

Joan didn’t recognize any of them. She read another notice, warning about alcohol abuse, and another about drugs. Finally, she reached the front desk. A woman in her thirties, wearing a white shirt and a black tie, asked if she could help her.

Joan was glad the woman could not see her knees. They were trembling. ‘I want to report a missing person,’ she said.

‘All right,’ the woman said. ‘Can you give me some details?’

‘Victor … my husband. He didn’t come home last night. I’m worried because … he … this … he … this is very unusual … I mean … not unusual … I mean … he has never in his life not come home … in the evening … after work.’ Joan felt her face burning. She was stumbling over the words. She felt hot and confused. ‘He doesn’t … you know … I mean … he always does … come home … my husband.’

There was a brief silence. Suddenly, in this silence, all Joan could think about were the two hairs in the washbasin.

‘I see,’ the woman said. ‘And you are?’ She picked up a pen.

‘His wife,’ Joan said, dumbly, her voice trembling. She could feel sweat trickling down her neck.

‘Your name?’ the woman said patiently.

‘Yes, yes. I’m Joan. Mrs … er … Mrs Smiley.’

The woman wrote this down. ‘If you could step aside and wait for a moment, I’ll get an officer to come and take down some details.’

Joan stepped aside. The woman went over to the phone. One of her colleagues attended to the next person in the queue behind Joan. A young girl, who looked spaced out, reported she had lost her mobile phone.

Joan took some deep breaths, trying to calm down. She watched several more people in turn step up to the counter. But she wasn’t listening to them. She was trying to rehearse what Don had told her to say.

‘Mrs Smiley?’

Joan turned at the sound of her name, and saw a tubby young woman with short fair hair. She was wearing a black uniform waistcoat over a white shirt and black trousers. The officer was peering at the people in the room.

Joan raised a hand. ‘Yes, that’s me.’

The officer had a radio sticking out of her breast pocket. A badge on one side of her chest bore a police crest with the words BRIGHTON AND HOVE. A badge on the other side said COMMUNITY SUPPORT. ‘Would you come this way, please?’ she said.

Joan followed her through the door, along a corridor and into a cramped, windowless room. There was only a metal table with chairs either side of it. ‘I’m PCSO Watts,’ she said politely, but very seriously.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Joan replied. She was now drenched in sweat.

The Police Community Support Officer asked her to sit down. Then PCSO Watts sat on the other side of the table. She opened a large notebook with a printed form on it. ‘Your husband is missing, is that right, Mrs Smiley?’

Joan nodded.

PCSO Watts picked up a biro. ‘Right, let’s start with his name.’

‘Victor Joseph Smiley,’ she said.

The officer wrote this down, very slowly. ‘And his age?’

‘Forty-three.’

‘You are worried because he did not come home last night, is that correct?’

Joan nodded. She did not like the way the officer was looking at her, studying her face intently. It felt as if she was looking right through her. ‘It’s very unusual,’ Joan said. ‘I mean, more than unusual, if you see what I mean?’

The officer frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t, no.’

‘Victor’s never done this before. Not come home. Not ever in all the time we’ve been married.’

‘Which is how long?’

‘Nineteen and a half years,’ Joan replied. She could have added, three weeks, four days, sixteen hours and seven minutes too long.