Chapter 7
SEVEN
PRESENT DAY
It was only as my blurred, glazed vision began to clear that I realised I wasn’t in my bed in the shed, rather I was on the nice plush white sofa in Bill and Ben’s living room. Oh dear. I was in very dangerous territory right now. Six margaritas + white sofa = very, very high risk.
The soft clank of a coffee mug hitting the coaster reverberated in my skull, echoing through the centuries to my early caveman ancestors.
I let out a small yelp, grabbed the thick velvet cushion my head had been resting on, and slapped it over my face to try and block any further auditory or visual stimuli.
Why did I always do this to myself? What was wrong with me?
‘You were a real pain in my arsehole last night,’ I heard Ben say, muffled through the fabric. ‘Far worse than the anal fissure of 2022.’
I remembered the anal fissure. It was a dark time for both of us. We don’t suggest taking up yoga anymore.
‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered through the cushion. I raised it a little bit to reveal my mouth. ‘I really am sorry. Did I not make it to the shed?’
‘You don’t remember how dazzlingly paralytic you were, do you?’ Ben replied. ‘You know we had to put a bucket down there just in case, right?’
I glanced downwards. Sure enough, there was, in fact, a bright red gardening bucket, neatly placed on a piece of kitchen paper to try and protect Bill’s expensive wood floor.
‘Was I talking about Greta?’ I asked, not really wanting to know the answer to that question, but asking nevertheless.
Ben sighed.
‘You were going on and on about the argument you had with her in Hammersmith on the night she…’
‘I see.’ That was all I could about manage to say as a response.
My inebriated episodes always seemed to end with me talking about Greta, like the guy in the pub who has a sip of an IPA and tells you about the girl who broke his heart and the family Labrador who died when he was sixteen.
I never even came close to finding out what she was trying to talk to me about that night, as much I tried to revisit it.
What had been so important? Would things be completely different now if I had just listened?
I knew the answer to that. If I had paid attention, she wouldn’t have stormed out and she wouldn’t be dead.
I knew Ben was silently a little cross, but he still pitied me too much to say anything.
The real issue was his boyfriend upstairs.
I winced at the thought of what Bill might say when he came down.
He had worked again last night, as he always seemed to do on Thursday nights, at his mysterious second job that no one ever talked about.
I tried to imagine once what it was. Maybe he was in fact a stripper; I mean, he had the body for it.
Maybe his alter ego was Bendy Bill, down at the Magic Mike experience near Leicester Square.
‘Oh, and you might want to drink your coffee,’ Ben added. ‘Detective Carlota is coming over in fifteen.’
‘In fifteen?’ I said, lifting my head from the sofa too quickly; the room tilted, and my stomach threatened to empty the last of its contents on their stunning wood flooring.
I gently lay back down on the sofa to settle my body like I was carefully handling a fragile nuclear bomb.
Why the hell was Detective Carlota coming here?
Unless the investigation had progressed because of my misdeeds?
Or, worse, she was coming to arrest me? This was the third time she was seeing me in less than a week, surely that didn’t bode well.
‘Yep!’ Ben answered with a forced enthusiasm. ‘She kept ringing and ringing your phone at midnight when I was bringing you back, so I picked up and told her to come by at eight.’
From the stairs, I could almost hear the distinctly passive-aggressive rhythm of Bill’s footsteps as he descended, followed by the very distinct scent of antiseptic ointment and Tiger Balm. Do strippers use Tiger Balm?
‘I tried to let you sleep as long as I could, but I figured you’d need some time to clean yourself up before she gets here,’ Ben added in a viciously calm monotone, a trait that had landed us in trouble in the early days of our relationship when I didn’t really understand communication was all in the way people spoke, less about the actual words they said.
Bill materialised at the bottom of the stairs, glaring at Ben with a look as if to say, Are you done now?
He placed a hand on Ben’s back. That was about the full extent of their physical affection when I was around, and I’ll give Bill credit for that.
He wasn’t one of those hyper-jealous maniacs terrified about Ben and I still having any kind romantic feelings, so felt the need to form a limb prison around their significant other.
But I also think he just wasn’t a big fan of public displays of affection in general.
Ben reached for the navy padded jacket I’d bought him for Covid Christmas in 2020, the first year we were married.
Meanwhile, I ever so carefully tried to shift my body upright, moving at a gentle pace to avoid ruining any more of Bill’s pristine house, but this time with the added risk of the walls being painted a new colour called Salt-Rimmed Lime.
‘Where are you off to today?’ I asked, suddenly aware that I needed to be at work myself in an hour and both of them would have normally left by now.
‘Nowhere important,’ Bill answered promptly before Ben could respond. Ben gave a weak smile as Bill rather hurriedly ushered him out the door, his hand still firmly glued to Ben’s back, almost obsessively rubbing as if he were trying to coax a genie from his spine.
Something was up between the two of them, something I couldn’t quite place. Ever since last Saturday, possibly longer, Ben was a shade more subdued and Bill was even more irritable than usual, which I didn’t think was even possible.
The thought of Carlota’s fast-approaching visit left me experiencing a strange curling and winding in the depths of my gut.
I didn’t feel strong enough to trudge the ten or so paces to the shed, so I barely had enough time to down the lukewarm cup of coffee, tie my greasy hair into a ponytail, and splash water on my face before I heard a firm but gentle knock at the front door of the house.
It was 7.58. Detective Carlota was punctual as ever.
I opened the door to find her visibly relaxing at the sight of me. Today, she wore a stunning lime-green cowl-neck jumper that suited her olive skin tone and stocky build beautifully, paired with navy slim-leg trousers. As always, phenomenal.
‘Thank God,’ she said, stepping forward and suddenly yanking me into a close, tight embrace.
The warmth, and sheer strength, of her arms wasn’t surprising given how muscular her frame was.
Then, just as swiftly as she had grabbed me, she stepped back as if to correct herself.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Sorry.
’ She seemed flustered, a rare sight for the usually impeccably composed woman I had known for the past two years.
‘Would… would you like to come in?’ I asked, once I had found my voice, still shaking off the surprise of the spontaneous embrace.
She nodded silently, stepping into the entryway, removing her shoes and taking her usual seat when she came to visit at the dining table.
I busied myself with the kettle, knowing perfectly well exactly how she liked her tea at this point.
With tea, there comes a point where you’re locked in for life.
If you’ve always had one sugar and a dash of milk, that’s it, that’s your tea now, forever.
You ever want to maybe experiment and dabble in having it black? No. That’s it. No takebacks.
‘So,’ I began as the water boiled, ‘if you don’t mind me asking, what prompted that quite dramatic show of relief just now?’
Detective Carlota hesitated as she took a deep inhale through her nasal passageways.
‘When you didn’t answer your phone last night, I panicked. I couldn’t rest until Ben picked up and told me everything was okay.’
I was glad she couldn’t see my face as I poured the water into the pot. Why would she assume something had happened to me? There was no way she could have known the heart, or the voice recording, had come direct from me, right?
I tried stretching and contorting my expression into one that looked like a mild surprise before placing the pot of tea in front of her.
‘Why?’ I asked bluntly. ‘Everyone misses calls, I was just out with some friends.’
She drew in another sharp breath and somewhat bashfully folded her arms, placing her palms around each respective rib.
‘Ruth,’ she paused, ‘darling, you know I’ve told you about as much as I can about this case, maybe far more than I should have at times.’
I nodded, that was true. She’d even skipped the department Christmas party the year before last to calm me down after I’d bombarded her with texts about a news clipping claiming to reveal the Telltale Killer’s secret identity was actually ex-deputy prime minister Nick Clegg.
Detective Carlota shifted restlessly in her chair before speaking again, a little uncomfortable as I could see she was still trying to find the words to speak her mind. Looking more like she was about to try and explain to me how when a daddy and a mummy loved each other very much…
‘I do need to tell you that the investigation into the TellTale Killer hasn’t reopened, nothing has changed there…’ She said it as if she was trying to manage my expectations somehow but then her voice dwindled and faded as I poured the tea from the pot into our mugs.