Timing and Alibis
Alibis matter. Let me teach you how to build one.
I spotted this heavenly creature in a coffee shop.
Daisy’s name-badge was pinned to a T-shirt with the words Swift-Tea on it.
I couldn’t not look, with a top that tight.
Our fingers brushed against each other’s as she passed me the steamy macchiato.
(Don’t believe everything you read about serial killers—black coffee isn’t our go-to.
But I digress.) As I sipped, I noticed a little smiley face next to where my name was scrawled (and incorrectly spelled) on the takeaway cup.
I was desperate to touch that soft, young skin.
I rarely feel that kind of urge. I came up with some chitchat about how hard baristas work and managed to discover what time Daisy’s shift finished.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from being there to walk her home.
I was in the city for a conference. It was a huge, all-day networking event and I didn’t really know anyone there.
I was confident in my own killing skills by this point, but I decided that an alibi could only be a good thing.
I mingled my little heart out that day. I was sure to introduce myself and say my name clearly and loudly to as many people as I could.
The event stretched well into the evening, but when the time came, I visited the lavatory and secreted my mobile phone underneath the pot plant in the corner of the bathroom.
It was one of those strange, mixed-gender affairs—a large room and cubicles within it that anyone can use—and I noticed that a boxed pregnancy test had been left on the top of the wastepaper basket.
It had Twin Pack written on it and I quickly surmised that one test had been used and the other discarded.
Interesting, I thought, and, using a piece of tissue, I took the unwanted pregnancy test with me, a little idea flitting about in the back of my mind as to how I might use it.
I pulled on my waterproof jacket, hat and glasses, and left.
The event wasn’t far from the coffee shop and I waited patiently outside for my date. I followed her for a while. She took a route that led down through a picturesque hamlet and along a riverbank.
Daisy hummed as she walked—I think it was Coldplay.
Music for people who don’t like music, in my opinion.
Never mind yellow, they’re beige. Haha. Occasionally, Daisy turned, looking over her shoulder toward me.
I was alone, without Tony, and I sensed that she was immediately uncomfortable about my presence.
The humming stopped. The looks over the shoulder grew more frequent.
I knew I was in trouble but I also have come to understand that women rarely act on their instincts, favoring politeness over their own survival.
“Excuse me,” I called out. “Excuse me!” Daisy hesitated, looked around for other people (there were none), then stopped. Slowly I approached, a smile on my face. “I’m a little lost,” I said. “Could you point me toward Notown?”
“Oh, sorry, I just moved here and…” Daisy said. “Wait, didn’t I serve you…?” She didn’t finish the sentence. She’d recognized me. The game was up. I smiled at her reassuringly but she turned on her heels and ran. Ah, Daisy, if only you’d done that earlier.
I caught her easily, of course. She was carrying a satchel that slowed her down and wore flat pumps that simply weren’t suitable for cross-country.
I pushed her shoulder and she fell down the river embankment, landing in the ferns and brambles at the bottom.
I climbed down after her to be sure she was OK.
I spent a little time with my barista in the undergrowth.
I suspect that she had a weak heart, because we really didn’t get much time together before she expired.
Not a bad thing, I supposed, because I didn’t want to be gone for too long.
I confess, I was once again tempted into taking a shiny dragonfly necklace from her neck as a wee keepsake.
I retrieved Daisy’s satchel, which she’d dropped near by. Taking the pregnancy test from my pocket, I pressed her fingers all over it. Remember, folks: fingerprints made immediately after death cannot be discerned from those made while alive.
On the return journey, I left my outer jacket in the doorway of a British Heart Foundation charity shop—I like to give back when I can.
I wiped my shoes down and arrived back at my networking event.
No one had noticed my absence, of course.
I collected my phone and enjoyed a few whiskies in celebration.
When the night was drawing to a close, I cajoled one or two fellow guests to share a taxi with me.
I got dropped off first, and when I entered the hotel, I made a pointless inquiry at the front desk to ensure that the receptionist noted my arrival and thus added more weight to my alibi.
In my room I ordered a paid-for movie, to prove that I was indeed present in the hotel.
Creating alibis in this way ensured that I was unlikely to be labeled a suspect in Daisy’s murder and introduced reasonable doubt, should I have had the misfortune of ending up on trial.
I took a little pride in the pregnancy-test red herring, imagining police officers and profilers looking closely at the men in her life.
As long as Daisy wasn’t some rainbow-flaunting rug-muncher—and based on her haircut and fingernails, I didn’t believe she was—there was bound to be a man somewhere in her periphery upon whom suspicion would land.
I didn’t receive so much as a phone call about the whole thing.
Daisy’s ex-boyfriend was arrested for the crime.
Unluckily for him, he was working in the same city that very weekend.
I couldn’t have planned it better. The boyfriend was charged but the jury found the case not proven and he went right back to his life.
I doubt he ever thinks about poor little Daisy.
I do.
I think about her every day, as I sip my macchiato.