Peter James - The Perfect Murder

For the next quarter of an hour Joan felt she was on trial. The officer fired one question after another at her. Had Joan contacted any of their friends? Yes, Ted and Madge, but they had not seen him or heard from him. What about Victor’s relatives? All he had was a sister, in Melbourne.

The officer wrote each answer down, painfully slowly.

Joan did her best to talk about Victor in a way she thought any loving wife would talk about her husband. He was the perfect man in every way. She adored him. He adored her. They had never spent a single day apart in all the years they had been married. Of course, they had their ups and downs, like any couple. She said that he was feeling very low after being made redundant. Very, very low.

But he had never, ever, not come home. Until last night.

Even after Joan said all this, PCSO Watts asked if this had ever happened before. Joan told her again that it had not. She repeated that he had been feeling low after being told he was being made redundant.

PCSO Watts was kind and full of sympathy. ‘Have you tried phoning his mobile number?’ she asked.

Joan went white for an instant. She felt her stomach churn like a cement mixer. The officer went in and out of focus. That stupid fool, Don! Why the hell didn’t he tell me to do that? How could I have been so stupid not to have thought of it?

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I try all the time. I keep phoning and phoning him.’

‘Are you worried about the effect that losing his job might have had on him and on his pride?’ PCSO Watts asked.

‘He is a proud man,’ Joan said. Well, she thought, that was better than saying he was an arrogant tosser.

‘Do you have a photograph of him we could circulate?’ Juliet Watts asked.

‘I could find one,’ she said.

‘That would be very helpful.’

‘I’ll drop one in.’

‘Look,’ the officer said, ‘I know this might be difficult for you, but is it possible that Victor is having an affair?’

Joan shook her head. ‘No. He loves me. We are very close. We are very, very close.’

‘So, you are worried about his state of mind after losing his job?’

‘I am very worried,’ Joan said. Don had told her to focus on this. Don had told her to try to make the police think he might have killed himself. ‘Victor is such a proud man. He came home in tears and sobbed his heart out the day he heard the news.’

That was a big fib, of course. He’d come home blind drunk, telling her he’d just told his boss where to stick his job!

‘Are you worried that he might have killed himself, Mrs Smiley?’

‘Yes.’

As she drove away from the police station, Joan was pleased with herself. She thought she had come across rather well as the desperate, sad wife of a missing person.

PCSO Juliet Watts had a different opinion. ‘Not happy about this person,’ she wrote in her report.

Chapter Twelve

Yes, Joan thought, she did feel pleased with herself. She decided she had handled herself well. She had given a great performance. PCSO Watts had believed her. That was important. It was also important that the officer said she was marking Victor down as High Risk.

Success!

She could not wait to tell Don.

She had to act normally first, so she did her afternoon shift, as usual, at the supermarket. But her mind was not on it and she kept making mistakes. Then at six o’clock, on the dot, she left and drove home. Not having to wait for the bus was a luxury in itself.

When she turned into her road, the sight of a white van in her driveway sent a bolt of fear through her. The van was backed right up against the garage door.

Joan parked in the street, hurried to the door and let herself in. Don was standing in the hall, in grimy jeans and a filthy T-shirt. Sweat was pouring off him. He was so covered in grey dust he looked like a ghost. ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

‘What’s the van? Whose is it?’ she blurted anxiously.

‘Calm down, love. Don’t I get a kiss?’

Ignoring him, she repeated anxiously, ‘Whose van is it?’ As she asked she was looking at the hall table, to see if Victor’s mobile phone was there.

‘Relax! I borrowed the van from a mate. I’ll show you what I used it for in a moment. So?’

‘So?’

‘So, how did it go at the cop shop?’

‘It was a breeze!’

‘See, you’re a star!’ He hugged her and tried to kiss her on the lips, but she turned her face, so he kissed her cheek instead. Then she pulled away from him.

‘You’re all sweaty,’ she said.

‘I’ve been working, while you’ve been acting the star!’

She did not feel like a star. She felt in need of a drink. She wanted a glass of wine. After that, she thought she would want another, and another.

Then she would probably want one more.

‘I need to phone Victor,’ she said.

‘You’d get a shock if he answered!’

‘That’s not funny. The police officer asked if I’d phoned him. We should have thought of the phone. That was stupid. Why didn’t you think of it?’

He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Dunno. Slipped my mind.’

‘Great,’ she said bitterly. ‘What else didn’t we think of? You had it all under control, you told me. You had it all planned. The perfect murder!’

‘I did,’ he nodded. ‘That was before we knew about the sugar, and before you hit him.’

‘You should have found out about the sugar sooner,’ she said.

‘Yeah, well, now we have to deal with things as they are. Don’t worry, I have it all worked out.’

She took her mobile phone from her bag and dialled Victor’s number. His Nokia, on the hall table, rang six times then stopped. She listened, and moments later she heard his voice message.

‘Hello, this is Victor Smiley. I’m sorry I can’t take your call at the moment. I’m not available. Please leave me a message and I’ll call you back.’

It was strange hearing his voice. It made her feel all tingly, in a bad way. Feeling very self-conscious, Joan said, ‘Hello, Victor dear. Where are you? Please call me. I am so worried about you, and I’m missing you. Love you!’

‘Liar!’ Don said when she hung up. ‘You don’t love him!’

Her face was burning, as if it was on fire. ‘You can’t lie to a dead person, can you?’

‘We need to hide his phone,’ Don said. ‘Remind me to take it later and ditch it somewhere. You shouldn’t have left that message. That was stupid. That was really stupid.’

‘It would have been even more stupid not to.’

‘It was stupid,’ he repeated. ‘You’re panicking. We mustn’t panic.’

‘I need a drink,’ she said.

Don insisted they went to the garage first. They had work to do, he said.

She followed him through the door that led from the hall to the garage. It was draughty in there and the concrete floor was cold under her feet. The air was so thick with dust she could barely see. It prickled her throat and she coughed.

Normally, they parked the Astra in here at night, but there would be no room now. In the centre of the garage there was a hole that Don had been digging. It was about six feet long and three feet wide. Concrete rubble and earth were scattered either side of it. Stacked against the far wall were several sacks of ready-mixed concrete, a pick-axe, two garden spades and several more tools.

‘There we are,’ Don said proudly. ‘I’ve been busy today. I’m a one-man VDT.’

‘VDT?’ she said. ‘What’s that?’

‘Victor Disposal Team!’

‘That’s not funny,’ she said.

‘Come on, love. You’re the one who wanted to do away with him. You asked me to help you. I’m helping you.’

She looked down into the grave. It was about two feet deep. ‘It’s too shallow,’ she said.