Two dead wives, p.23
Two Dead Wives, page 23
He answered his phone in a hurry, assuming it would be Fiona or one of the boys with an update as to when he should expect them home. He’s called all three of their mobiles this morning and sent texts, but he’s heard nothing from them. It’s only ten o’clock, though, it’s very possible they are all still asleep. Teen boys can sleep as though it’s an Olympic sport.
Hearing Daan Janssen’s voice when he was hoping for Oli’s or Seb’s is especially jarring, disturbing.
He is talking to a killer. He wonders whether it is possible that Janssen is going to reveal where Leigh’s body is. He’s read about murderers doing just that. He has found himself drawn to such stories on the internet; ones about abductions, murders, missing persons, missing bodies. It’s obviously not healthy. What obsession is? Of course, his immersion in such dark vileness also means that he has read about murderers doing the exact opposite instead. Some, famously, go to their own grave without revealing where their victim’s remains might be found. The final power kick over the grieving family, over the police and even the general public. So far, Daan Janssen has insisted he is pleading not guilty. Mark wonders whether he is going to change his plea, but even so it is unconventional of Janssen to call him directly to tell him as much. What does he want?
“I did not kill Kylie Gillingham.”
The cool, confident, foreign voice irritates Mark. It makes him feel less. Everything about Janssen makes Mark feel less. No shit, Sherlock. Daan Janssen is the literal embodiment of the fact that his wife didn’t think he was enough. Mark thinks it is interesting that Janssen uses that particular name. He doesn’t claim her as his Kai, he doesn’t admit she is Mark’s Leigh. Is he trying to neutralize her? Maybe it’s nothing more than the fact that Kylie Gillingham is the name the police use. As Janssen is under arrest and in constant touch with the police and lawyers, he has probably heard her referred to that way officially so is simply used to the impartial, original name.
“Where are your boys?” Janssen demands.
Again Mark wants to respond, “Fuck off.” It’s basic of him. Pathetic. He knows that, but he’s so damned furious. Furious with the world in general but Janssen in particular. He hates him with every fiber of his being. He’s blistering from the inside with how many unjust things have happened to him. He really means that; he imagines he feels ulcers, lacerations, welts inside his body. The pain is so intense. “None of your fucking business,” he says.
“I think maybe it is. They are not at home, are they?” Janssen asserts. Mark wonders how he knows this. He looks about him. For one crazy moment he wonders if there is a nanny-cam trained upon him; if Janssen is spying on him. Perhaps even his privacy isn’t his. Then Janssen explains how he has this inside knowledge. “I gave them money to run away.”
“You did what?” Mark’s voice lifts and cracks; it’s undignified, embarrassing, but he doesn’t care. Outrage is creating fissures.
“No, not that exactly. But to get to safety.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve been in touch with my sons?”
“Yes.” Daan efficiently describes his interaction with Oli and Seb. He doesn’t sound regretful, embarrassed or apologetic. He sounds like a man who feels he is entitled to reach out to two traumatized and grieving boys for his own convenience. Mark is stunned at how easily he infiltrated their lives, won their trust and then gave them the funds to go on an ill-advised wild-goose chase, apparently to somehow prove Janssen’s innocence. What the hell? He feels the man’s determination and selfishness; he feels his own despair and passivity.
“I should call the police, say you have been tampering with witnesses. Juvenile witnesses at that,” Mark splutters.
“I realize you could do that. At least what you accuse me of is true.” Mark wonders how he keeps it up. How does he manage to remember to profess his innocence at all times? Janssen continues, “I am aware that I’m taking a risk calling you. I could just be making things worse for myself. Look, I hope I’m wrong. I hope Oli and Seb are safely at home with you right now. Are they?”
Mark doesn’t want to answer this question. He owes Janssen nothing at all, not even a response. Besides, his sons are okay. Last night he called the police and told them that the boys were, “Fine. Good. Really great.”
Janssen sighs; he sounds stressed, urgency creeping into his voice. “I am not the threat here. I told you I did not kill Kylie Gillingham.”
“And I’m just supposed to take your word for it, am I?”
“Fiona killed her.” Janssen’s accusation is flat and assured. It’s all the more chilling for its lack of hysteria. He continues, “Fiona killed her and then set me up. Where is she now? Is she with your sons?”
Mark wonders if Janssen is insane and believes what he is spouting, or sane and just devilish.
“Well, yes, she is, but...” He wants to explain that Fiona has been a marvel. She’s kept them all going. She cooks, cleans, shops, fucks. He talks to her, gets drunk with her, he trusts her. But Janssen cuts him off.
“I believe your boys are in serious danger. Really. I’m trying to help you.”
Mark hears the words but can’t make sense of them. Why would Janssen be trying to help him? Janssen is the murderer. “Bullshit,” he splutters.
“Oli and Seb went to her holiday home on the coast. The place where she left my possessions to be found by the police. I have never been there. I told the police that. She told them the opposite. It is the place I think she murdered Kylie. Oli and I were messaging. He said he has found evidence that looks bad for her.”
“Why should I believe you?” Mark asks.
“Because it’s too dangerous not to,” Janssen snaps. Mark doesn’t know what to say to that. Janssen seems to lose patience completely. “Forget it. If you won’t call the police, I will call them myself. I think they would believe anything you say more easily and therefore act quicker. With me they will think I am trying to save myself, but I will call them anyway. I don’t care if this backfires on me and they charge me for speaking to witnesses. This is too big. It is too much of a risk to do nothing.” Mark still doesn’t know how to respond. This can’t be true. Janssen adds, “You are a prick who can’t see what’s in front of you because you are so wrapped up in your anger and because you are getting to screw someone new.”
All at once, Mark realizes that Janssen’s fury, fear and confusion is immense. It matches his own. Janssen has exposed himself as someone who is not in control, not as together as the endless dark suits and crisp shirts might imply, and he has also exposed himself as someone who cares. He is right, Mark does not want to believe this latest twist in the bleak tale of his family life. But he must consider the possibility. He starts to think quickly. Run through the facts. Weigh them up.
Fiona did not say where she and the boys were when she messaged to say she had found them. Was she at the skate park, the place she’d mentioned originally, or is Janssen right, did she find them at her bungalow? If so, why didn’t she reveal as much? Considering the time she messaged, it is possible that she had traveled as far as Dorset to look for them. He didn’t speak to the boys himself. Was that odd, or was it perfectly normal considering the late hour? Probably they were shattered and in bed when she texted. He doesn’t know. Shame sloshes into his consciousness as he recognizes that he should have asked to talk to them. He was so relieved that they’d turned up and that she was dealing with it. He hasn’t got it in him to always be dealing with everything. Fiona suggested he call off the police search, though, which of course he duly did.
Mark thought the worst thing that could possibly happen to him already had. Twice. He had lost two wives. But now he considers that there is a possibility of something more dreadful. Daan Janssen is right. He has taken his eye off the ball, he has slumped into the easiest option, that of Fiona taking the reins. Is it possible that option is not convenient but dangerous? Toxic? He let her move in and take over because he didn’t have the energy or the courage to parent on his own.
“They are with Fiona, she messaged me to tell me,” he confesses. “I don’t know where they are exactly.”
“She killed Kylie, and the boys are with her in her holiday home in Lyme Regis,” Daan reasserts.
“No, that’s ridiculous. Fiona loved Leigh.”
“You are screwing her, right? If she loved her best friend so much, how come she is sleeping with her husband just three months after her death? A little quick off the mark, don’t you think?” Mark doesn’t say that in fact there wasn’t even a grieving period as respectable as three months; they started having sex almost immediately. He was so angry and confused. What was her reasoning? He’s never thought about it. “Fiona had motivation to kill Kylie. She was jealous. Probably, she was in love with you, or me, or both of us? There is precedent for that particular model,” adds Janssen wryly.
Mark can’t see how Janssen finds it in him to make cool wisecracks at a time like this; he must just say that sort of thing as second nature. He probably never has to think about coming up with something funny or witty or quick. Those thoughts clearly just tumble freely into his mind, off his tongue. Mark wonders if that was what attracted Leigh to him. Did he make her laugh? Did he challenge her intellectually? It was bad enough thinking the attraction was that he was rich and handsome. He realizes now that none of this matters. Leigh is dead and gone. He has to snap out of his despair and sharpen up. For his boys. Still, he is struggling to process it. He can’t accept more pain. He wants to deny it.
“But even if you are right and she did kill Leigh, she would never hurt the boys. She’s known them for years and I’ve watched her with them these past months. She cooks for them, cleans their rooms, she’s done all of Seb’s homeschooling with him. She’s so patient.”
“Yes, that was when she wanted to be their mother and thought there was a chance of that. What if they’ve discovered something that proves her guilt? What if she knows that they have that evidence and now they are a threat to her?”
“Then they are in danger,” admits Mark. Cold dread settles in him. His blood slows, freezes. Time slackens, his life shrinks. He feels trapped. His world is hanging by a thread. Everyone’s is.
37
Fiona
It’s getting very bad. Fiona sees that matters are out of her control. Other people are doing things, thinking things, finding things. That bastard Daan Janssen is repeatedly messaging Oli. Asking what he’s found, if he is okay. He was never so persistent in trying to reach her, she thinks bitterly. She wonders, should she respond to Daan as Oli to get him to go away? She drafts a response.
Just messing with you. Found nothing. Because there’s nothing to find. You did it, you fucker.
She wonders, does that seem like the sort of response Oli might send? She isn’t sure. Maybe she needs to be a little less careful with the grammar and spelling.
Just messin wif u. Found nothing. Nothing 2 find. u did it, u fucker.
She’s unsure. She’s frazzled. Wired. She needs to sleep but it’s out of the question; she can’t even sit still but instead paces up and down. She can’t make a decision. Even if she sends this message and it stops Daan pestering Oli, will that be enough? That will only solve the problem of Daan.
Oli knows something. What?
She considers running. Just giving up on the whole thing and getting out of here. But could she leave everything behind? Her homes, her car, her business? She could, she supposes, if she had to. But she doesn’t want to leave Mark and all that he offers; the possibility of a family life. Over these past few months they’ve had something really special going on. She feels it, believes it. She’s never had anything like it before and she isn’t ready to give it up. Why should she? Doesn’t she deserve a bit of happiness? Finally? After everything she’s done to earn it? Yes, she does. Besides, running would make her look guilty, and though obviously she is technically guilty, no one has actually accused her yet, and so she would be escalating the situation by running. No, running is not an option.
But then nor is going to prison.
The only solution is to find out what the evidence is that Oli has uncovered and see if it does incriminate her. It’s perfectly possible that she can convince him it’s not evidence at all. She simply has to stick to her story. There is so much evidence pointing to Daan’s guilt. It’s always the husband. No one should be looking her way.
She doesn’t want to scare Oli, or Seb, of course not. She loves them both, but she has to put herself first in this instance. She isn’t being selfish; this is more a matter of self-care. Her Instagram feed is always full of affirmations on the subject.
Put your own life jacket on first before helping others.
Remember you deserve the care you gift others.
You are the hero in your own story.
She has a sticker on her makeup mirror that reads: I am working on fully loving and accepting myself. She really is. She needs to take deep inhales of oxygen. It is in everyone’s interests for her to get away with this, because then she can be a mother to the boys. Help them deal with their grief. She’ll be no use to anyone in prison.
Oli can be stubborn, though, she knows that. And he is physically intimidating, as he is taller than she is. She wonders how she might control him, at least until he hears her point of view, accepts reason. Seb is still a boy. He has to be lighter than Kylie and she managed to manhandle Kylie when necessary. He is the key to controlling Oli.
She sneaks into the boys’ room. They are still sleeping; they no doubt had a long and busy day yesterday and they would probably sleep all day if she let them. She would like to, but she has to get on. She puts her hand over Seb’s mouth. His eyes immediately open. In an instant, he jerks from deep unconsciousness to a panicked presence. It’s a pity; he’s been through a lot, but that is not her fault. She is just cleaning up Kylie’s mess really. She whispers, “I have information about your mum that I can only tell you if you trust me. Do you understand?” Her mouth is very close to his ear. She can smell his hair, salty and sweaty; he obviously didn’t shower last night. He really does need a mother.
His big brown eyes are the same color as melted chocolate in a pan, glistening, rich. He blinks and then nods. She knew he wouldn’t be able to resist that. It is all he longs for, news about his bloody wayward stepmother. It infuriates her. Kylie was so undeserving. She whispers, “You have to stay absolutely silent, agreed?” He nods again. She smiles at him and takes her hand away from his mouth. He doesn’t shout out to wake Oli; instead he smiles at her. A broad, hopeful grin. “Come with me, don’t make a sound,” she whispers. Silently they sneak out of the room, down the corridor and into the kitchen.
Only once they are there does he ask in an excited whisper, “What do you know?”
“I have to take you somewhere,” she says. Seb looks thrilled. “Have some breakfast first. We’ll drive.” She watches as he eats the pain au chocolat and drinks the milk: both are laced with liquid MDMA, left over from when she held Kylie captive. She’d brought it with her because it was always better to be prepared. He really is well behaved; even when she is locking the door behind them, he doesn’t say another word. Momentarily she wonders whether she needed to drug him at all. Maybe she could have just asked him to do her a favor and climb into the boot of her car, but in the long run, it’s better for him if he doesn’t remember anything.
“You can sit in the front,” she says.
He grins and scrambles into the car as quickly as he can, puts on his seat belt without her having to ask. Slowly she edges the car into gear and sets off along the narrow road. They’ve only been driving for a couple of minutes before Seb starts to look lethargic. He repeatedly blinks his eyes and shakes his head, no doubt trying to ward off dizziness, numbness in the arms and legs, drowsiness that he probably thinks is down to tiredness after a late night. “Are you taking me to see my mum?” he mumbles. He’s smiling. “I knew she wasn’t dead. I said she wasn’t. I said I saw her.”
“What do you mean?” Fiona asks sharply.
But before he can answer, he loses his ability to speak. There is a fraction of a second when he looks scared. Well, terrified really. Probably at the moment when his heartbeat sped up and he realized that he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. At that moment he might have wondered whether he could trust Fiona. But then, almost straightaway, he falls unconscious, and Fiona reminds herself that he won’t remember any of this after it’s all over. It’s better now he’s given in to sleep and closed his eyes. The way he was staring at her was disconcerting. The way his head lolls forward over the seat belt at a peculiar angle looks a bit grotesque too. She wonders whether she has possibly given him too big a dose. She needed it to work quickly; she didn’t have the luxury of time the way she had when she drugged Kylie. She wasn’t sure whether increasing the dose would mean it would take effect faster, or make the effects more severe, or equally severe but more enduring. She didn’t have time to look it up on the internet. She’s working a little on the fly here.
Whatever, she can’t worry about that now. She has to tie him up and then bundle him into the boot of the car. She uses her scarf to gag him. She hopes he doesn’t dribble on it. It’s not designer, but it is rather lovely. She’d rather it didn’t get ruined. Once he is safely stowed, she turns the car around and drives back to the bungalow to wait for Oli to wake up.
The two of them need to have a really good heart-to-heart.
38
Kylie
