Chapter 14
‘Now, I realise that can’t be true,’ Darren continued in his ominously saccharine tone. ‘I mean, where would you go? Who would even want you? But you’ve been keeping secrets from me, Claire, and that’s a problem. You know how I feel about secrets.’
‘Let me make your tea,’ she said, turning back to the kettle as it clicked off.
Her mind was such a maelstrom, working feverishly to come up with a plausible lie, that she barely registered the telltale scrape of his chair on the kitchen floor as he got up.
Before she knew what was happening, he was on her, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back so hard it felt like her neck would snap.
‘What were you planning – argh, fuck!’
He released her as quickly as he’d seized her, and she was momentarily confused until she saw the kettle in her hand.
She’d just gripped the handle when he’d attacked, and she’d obviously brought her arm up in a protective reflex, hitting him in the head with it and spraying him with boiling water in the process.
‘I can’t see! What have you done?’ he bellowed, clutching at his face as he staggered in the direction of the sink, reaching blindly for the tap.
What happened next was a blur. As Darren bent over the sink, Claire felt almost detached from her arm as it brought the kettle down hard on his head.
She was oblivious to the pain of the water scalding her hand and wrist as she dropped the kettle in the sink and reached towards the knife block.
She felt as if she were an observer, even though it was clearly her hand plunging the knife into his neck.
He tried to fight her off, but she seemed to have been imbued with almost superhuman strength as she stabbed him again and again, only stopping when the knife was so slick with his blood that she was unable to grip it properly.
It seemed like an age before Darren’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, even though it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.
All Claire could hear was her ragged breathing.
Dropping the knife, she sank down until she was curled up in a kind of squatting foetal position as her gulps of air turned into full-on sobs.
What the hell had she just done?
‘Lunch, everyone!’ Cara’s voice calls across the garden as I try to picture the scene in my head.
This is one of those tricky moments where I need to get the descriptions completely accurate, because there’s nothing readers like more than pointing out an inconsistency to prove how clever they are, and they can be forensic in their quest to find something wrong.
Everything matters, from the relative height of attacker and victim, to whether the attacker is left or right-handed.
I once received a lengthy diatribe on Larry’s Instagram page from a reader who explained in huge detail how the murder as I’d described it was physically impossible.
Finn is waiting for me on his bench and gets to his feet as I approach.
‘I owe you an apology,’ he says as he falls into step next to me.
‘Really? Why?’
‘I’ve been a terrible conversationalist. I’ve only talked about me so far, so I want to put that right over lunch. Why crime?’
I consider the question for a moment. ‘I think it’s important to write in a genre that you’re passionate about,’ I tell him.
‘The very first crime novel I read was The Surgeon by Tess Gerritsen, and it gripped me from the start. I binge read all of hers before moving on to Stephen King, Patricia Cornwell – you get the picture. It never even occurred to me that I’d write anything else. ’
‘It’s hard though, isn’t it? Lots of research.’
‘Yes, but that’s one of the things I love, getting deep into the detail.’
‘How do you research something like that?’
‘Well, as I said, the first part is reading lots of other books in the same genre. But I’ve also got books on human anatomy, police procedure, and it’s amazing what you can find online.’
‘Good point. I’m surprised your browsing history hasn’t fired up a red flag somewhere. Tell me about your book.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘What’s happening, where’s it going, all that stuff.’
I smile. ‘You might steal my idea and sell it to a publisher.’
‘Unlikely. You’ve got insurance because I already told you about my idea for the show. Let’s agree to stay in our own swim lanes and I’m sure we’ll be fine.’
‘OK, so I’m about halfway through and my main character, Claire, has just killed her coercively controlling and abusive boyfriend, Darren,’ I tell him.
‘How?’
‘She stabbed him in the neck with a kitchen knife.’
‘Nice. Hang on, though. Does the reader know it’s her who killed him?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought the whole point of these types of books was that you didn’t know who the killer was until the last moment. Haven’t you kind of given that away?’
‘That’s one option, and I’ve written a few like that, but it’s by no means the only trope in the genre.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, “whodunnit”, which is what you’re talking about, is a fairly common trope. But you can also have stories where the murderer is known but their motive is unclear until the end, for example.’
‘A “whydunnit”.’
‘Exactly. So, in this book, I’m playing with a few tropes. The first half of the book focuses on the abusive relationship between Darren and Claire.’
‘Sounds grim. Do people want to read that kind of thing?’
‘People are inherently voyeuristic. It’s why we all crane our necks when we pass a car crash, even though we know we shouldn’t. So yes, even though it’s grim, as you put it, there’s a market.’
‘Right, so you’ve got your abusive relationship and then she kills him. I might be being dim here, but isn’t there still meant to be an element of suspense?’
‘Absolutely. So, what the reader will know when they buy the book is that it contains at least one murder that will have repercussions years later. What they don’t know until the scene I’ve just written is whether Darren is going to kill her or the other way around.
I’ve been very careful to lay breadcrumbs along the way, hopefully pointing the finger towards Darren killing Claire in an attack that goes too far. ’
‘So it’s a surprise when she turns out to be the killer instead. I like it.’
‘Thank you.’
It’s no surprise, however, to find that Gina and her acolytes are already ensconced at the head of the table when we arrive.
Tess is sitting next to Suzie, so I take the place opposite her and motion Finn to sit next to me so I’m a barrier between him and Grace.
I’m just congratulating myself on my tactics when I realise that I’ve left a massive open goal, as the only place for Lynette to sit is now opposite Finn.
What I’m unprepared for, however, is that she doesn’t look happy about it either when she joins us a minute or two later.
She’s almost scowling with displeasure, but it’s only when I see the delighted expression on Gina’s face that I realise I’ve played a double fault because I’ve also denied Lynette direct access to needle her sister and her cronies.
‘I’ve got a choice of starter for you today,’ Cara tells us as she places jugs of iced water and carafes of wine on the table.
‘I’ve made a vegetarian version of soupe à l’oignon gratinée à l’ancienne, which is a traditional French onion soup with a crouton and a layer of grated Gruyère cheese on the top, or, for the meat lovers, a kind of pork terrine called Civier Bressan, which is very popular throughout France.
It goes by a variety of names and many regions claim credit for inventing it but I stick with the traditional one, which is that it originates from Bourg-en-Bresse. ’
‘Ooh, they both sound delicious,’ Grace coos next to me. ‘What are you going to have, Gina?’
‘What does it matter what she has, Grace?’ Lynette snaps grumpily. ‘You’ve got a brain of your own, haven’t you? Why not bring it out of retirement and choose what you’d actually like, rather than mindlessly following her all the time.’
‘Someone got out of bed the wrong side this morning,’ Gina observes smugly before turning to an indignantly pink Grace. ‘But you know how I love all things French. “Quand en France, fais comme les Francais”, as I always say. I’ll have the terrine, please, Cara.’
‘I think I’ll have that too,’ Grace says, causing Lynette to snort derisively.
‘And me,’ Suzie adds.
‘Soup for me, please,’ Tess says. ‘I’m a vegetarian.’
‘Yes, I’ll have the soup as well,’ Finn says, hastily putting down his phone as Cara glances at him.
‘Terrine,’ Lynette practically barks, staring at Gina as if willing her to question her choice.
‘I’ll have the terrine as well,’ I say. I’m sure Cara’s onion soup is delicious, but it’s something that Liv makes regularly, and I can’t see myself enjoying it without the richness of the beef stock to underpin it.
‘So,’ Finn says to me once Cara has disappeared to deal with our orders. ‘Claire stabs him in the neck. That sounds messy.’
‘Oh, it is,’ I reply. ‘If you hit the carotid arteries, you’re looking at literal fountains of blood and the victim will likely bleed out within a minute or two. That’s the tricky bit I’ve got to navigate now.’
‘How so?’
‘First of all, I have to consider the angle of attack. She’s right-handed and standing behind him when she stabs him, so we’re looking at the right carotid artery. All the initial bleeding will therefore be to the right-hand side of them.’
‘Yup, that seems straightforward enough.’