Twenty-One
Vending machine coffeein a plastic cup brought back memories. Bad ones. Carol should have been in bed, falling asleep toWomen Who Kill. Instead she was sitting on a ledge, listening to the mindless yells of the shoplifting junkie in the neighboring police cell. They all sounded the same. For years, the moans, groans, and ramblings of addicts had been her birdsong.
At least this time she’d been able to entertain herself with her phone. That was one advantage of being the age she was. The desk sergeant had taken pity on her and allowed her to keep her mobile. She’d sat there, scrolling through Facebook, looking at old friends still in prison. Perhaps she’d be seeing them again soon.
She saw herself in that moment, holding the bottle to Belinda’s throat. That had been her opportunity but she hadn’t taken it. There had been enough time, but she’d paused. Carol was no longer a woman who killed. She was like Mike Tyson at the end of his career. The murderous rage had left her, and it would never return. That afternoon, she’d thought it was back, but it wasn’t. That wasjust an echo. That was just, in truth, a sadness. But she was no longer a woman who expressed her feelings through the medium of killing. She needed a new hobby.
The irony was not lost on her. On the evening she’d learned, definitively, that she could no longer kill, when she’d had it confirmed that she did not have it in her…she’d been arrested for murder. Funny old game.
A judder rising up from her chest caught Carol by surprise, and then…Was she? She was. She was crying. Carol hadn’t cried this century. Prison hadn’t allowed it. The shell she had grown for herself hadn’t allowed it. Carol had retired her tear ducts at an early age. They had had as much use as her appendix. Crying was a weakness she could not afford, yet here she was, alone, in a police cell, blubbering like a little girl.
Carol did not want to go back to prison.
She found herself overwhelmed by all the forgotten feelings of crying. The shame and embarrassment, then the relief. She embraced the release and began to wail. It felt good. Decades of tension leaving her body. Carol was expressing her feelings without murdering. Emotion without a death count. Was this what her prison counselor had called personal growth?
But prison was not a world in which she could do this, wherethisCarol could survive. She had to fight to stay on the outside. She had a life left to live.
The shutter on her cell door slid open, and Laura Welsh’s face appeared.
“All right, Carol. We’re ready for you now.”
Carol wiped her eyes with her sleeve and composed herself.
Twenty-Two
Even after hearingabout her crimes, Catherine had struggled to picture Carol as the killer. But after seeing her attack Belinda, she knew it had to be true.
Catherine had spent much of the previous day considering how Carol had gone about poisoning Desmond. Having Desmond lick the bowl had been a clever trick, but how had she, so expertly, managed not to contaminate the rest of the cake mixture? They’d all eaten the results. They hadn’t tasted good, but, and perhaps this was the kindest thing you could say about the cakes Margaret and Carol had made on Tuesday, they hadn’t been poisoned.
Catherine stopped swimming and took a rest, hanging at the edge of the Ladies’ Pond on Hampstead Heath. The sun was just coming up. The air was as fresh as it got in North London, which was not especially fresh but fresh enough. Fresh enough for Catherine.
She’d spent a career analyzing death. In the case of murder, her remit had been “what,” “when,” and “how,” rather than“who.” “Who” was exciting. She’d been enjoying “who” and now she wanted to know “why.”
Well, the police had Carol now. A fun little interlude but the case was closed. Catherine would probably never see Carol again, probably never find out “why.” Perhaps she’d visit her in prison and get the full story. That could be a day trip to look forward to. What if Carol agreed to her visit, but only under the condition that Catherine smuggle in a condom stuffed with drugs up her rectum? Something to consider.
Pushed, strangled, bludgeoned, poisoned—what a thorough job she’d done on poor Desmond! There was a lot to admire about Carol. Not many women of her age had that kind of vim. Catherine worked hard at her fitness, all those nuts and berries, overnight oats, morning swims, and evening Pilates. But if she really wanted to, would she have the energy for all ofthat?
Catherine blushed. Last night, after the excitement of Carol’s arrest, she’d had a slow dance with Geoffrey. It was the closest her body had been to a man’s since Nigel had left. To her surprise, she’d found herself rather liking it. That was until Geoffrey had started talking. The song had been “Imagine” by John Lennon, and Geoffrey had been unable to resist explaining to Catherine that if you had a world without countries and possessions, then they would have to be created, because human nature required them. “What Lennon is doing here is selling anarchy as utopia and I’m afraid I just can’t sign up to that, Catherine.” It had been a shame because, until he’d started talking, Catherine had, in that moment, found herself rather attracted to Geoffrey. Companionship, human contact—they could be nice things to have. If she could just stop the man from opening his mouth. Perhaps she’dwait until Geoffrey showed signs of dementia and seduce him when he became mute.
Catherine squinted at what she thought was the rising sun but soon came to realize was, in fact, just the palest body she’d ever seen. It was Geoffrey, in nothing but boxers, walking around the side of the pond toward her.
“Don’t mind me! I’m just here for a swim,” he shouted as he moved, to no one in particular. “Ah, Catherine. I knew you’d be here, and I had to speak to you. Excuse my current state. This was the only way I could think of being inconspicuous.”
“Good morning, Geoffrey. This is the Ladies’ Pond.”
“Catherine, I’ve been up all night thinking.”
Dear God, was this about to be a declaration of love?
“The police have Carol but I’m worried that the case will go on forever, because they always do and I may not last all that long and I’ll never find out why she did it. Catherine, I have to know why she did it. I can’t stop this investigation.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” said Catherine, trying to look at Geoffrey’s face and not his body.
“I remembered something. I have a key to Desmond’s apartment. He had a key to mine. It was a little arrangement in case we locked ourselves out. Pointless, really, seeing as the front desk have keys to all our places, but I’ve always done it with a neighbor, just out of habit, you know.”
“Geoffrey, perhaps you might like to get to the point. You’re shivering and I think that lifeguard might be heading straight for you.”
“Catherine, I think we need to take a look inside Desmond’s apartment. There may be some evidence there.”
