‘I can see the image now,’ she says. ‘He’s too far away. I don’t think that would lead to anything online.’
‘Worth a try? I want to know who he is and why he was following me.’
‘He was probably just scoping out your house. It’s what thieves do,’ says Cait, a little disdainful.
‘Then why was he at the school, Cait? What if there’s more to this?’
‘You could be mistaken. Or maybe that’s how he finds his marks. I’ll look online for missing person reports.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘Oh, while you’re on the phone, Tor said she’s having concrete delivered tomorrow. Can you find out what time the builders are arriving?’
‘How would I do that?’
‘Just check Tor’s schedule. It’s in the kitchen. She’s got things mapped out second by second. We’re thinking of having some work done, I just wanted to catch them.’
‘Right,’ says Cait suspiciously. I hear the creak of the door opening in the background, then silence. Eventually, Cait comes back on the line, panting.
‘It’s being delivered tomorrow. Three p.m. to four p.m. And I know what you’re thinking,’ she says in an accusing tone. ‘Concrete, dead body... I’m not a fool. And no, you can’t bury him under Tor’s new pool house.’
‘Well, where else? I’ve got to get rid of the body. There’s nowhere safer. It’s your DNA I’m burying as well as mine, Cait.’
‘What about Tor?’ she says after a good thirty seconds.
‘Leave Tor to me. I’ll get her out of the house. Tell her I’ve found a copy of the Adams Maths entrance paper. I drive round at about four p.m., we carry the body to the garden under thecover of darkness, and plop, it’s done. No mess, no trace. No more panic attacks.’
‘This is so wrong!’
‘Life happens, Cait. Burglars steal. Husbands abuse. It’s time to even the score. So be a fucking woman for once in your life, and bury a fucking body, won’t you?’
Chapter18Letter
Having failed to get pregnant over the past year, I booked Stephen in for an MOT with a private health centre to check everything was in working order. He was deemed healthy with a strong sperm count. I repeat this to him often, in the hope that he will feel more manly.
The doctor suggested a medical intervention, but Stephen doesn’t believe in chemically induced arousal, so Viagra was off the table. I tried it anyway, by putting some in his muesli. He returned from work highly embarrassed, having been unable to rise from his chair at the end of a meeting. I had no idea it worked so quickly, and that while it produces a physical effect, it doesn’t create the desire to go with it. What’s the point of keeping the light on if no one’s at home?
Running out of options, I just thought, why not try nature’s own Viagra, so I hired Aimée, a twenty-four-year-old Frenchwoman, as our nanny. I didn’t choose her for her personal charm, her ability to cook, or her nurturing nature – she has none of these – but because she is stunningly pretty, and very much Stephen’s type.
I hoped that the sight of a nubile young woman around the place would get his juices flowing, and testosterone levels would revive. But if it worked they’ve not been flowing in my direction and I haven’t seen him even glance in hers.
This evening, after Aimée has put the children to bed and grunted at me, Stephen is sitting in the kitchen and I’m feeding the dishwater its daily diet of plates and cutlery.
‘Police were around today,’ he says casually. ‘When you were out shopping.’
I scrape congealed carbonara into the organic waste bin and hold myself still for a moment. ‘The police?’
‘Yeah.’
He says no more. I wonder if that’s because it’s of no interest or if he’s gauging my response. I rinse the creamy remains from the plate and put it in the rack.
‘What did they want?’
‘They’re doing a house to house. Missing person.’
‘Anyone we might know?’ I turn, but he’s scrolling through his phone.
‘A man. They showed me a photo. Not anyone I’ve ever seen.’
‘Did they say who he was?’ I ask.
