While watching, an idea comes to mind that might give me the additional leverage I need for what I want from Tor. I screenshot a suitable image, crop it to remove any identifiable features and create a mysterious and sexy image. After setting up a fake Facebook account, I post the picture, then tag all the mummies in Hero’s class under the headline: ‘One of These Mums is Not Like the Other Mums’.
I think about Zac, all tied up in his bed, and wonder how he’s coping. It took him about ten seconds to realize that the waterfrom the kettle was ice cold rather than boiling hot. The most he suffered was a slight shock and loss of pride. Even so, I had to hold a boiled kettle over his crotch before he would tell the truth. It only took three little stinging drops of boiling water, and he was desperate to tell me the whole story.
Zac agreed to my two conditions. Firstly, to cut all ties with every single woman he’d abused and exploited, including Tor, and stop his abuse. If he reneged on this condition, I explained that his laptop, containing evidence of all incidences of blackmail and illegally-obtained videos, would be handed over to the police.
Secondly, to pass all the proceeds of his wicked deeds to me. With his direction and passwords, I withdrew everything from his Bitcoin wallet and transferred it to my account. This upset him immensely as it came to £150,000. This wonderful and unexpected gift means I only need fifty thousand to secure the Hampstead house.
Not only had I increased my bank balance and freed those women from extortion, I’d done a good deed for all those women who might have fallen victim to his wiles in the future. I was about to leave, when Zac, showing an undiminished commitment to his craft, asked if we might finish what we’d started.
I was surprised but he seemed turned on by a woman tying him up, ruining his little business and extracting money from him. I understand that financial domination is a niche fetish, but he seemed eager.
Call it an indulgence or an act of charity, if you will, but despite our differences I was happy to oblige, once I switched off the cameras, and we left on good terms. With this memory, I decide on one further act of generosity. I call the concierge at Zac’s apartment block, explain that I was called away in the midst of a sex game, and ask if they might possibly visit Zac to untie him.
Feeling physically aroused from my recent escapade, positive about my improved bank balance, pleased with Madeleine’s heart condition, and happy about Stephen’s partnership prospects, I decide to watch a few more of Zac’s videos to remind myself of his astonishing body.
In my fourth video, Zac is wearing leather chaps, a cowboy hat and nothing else, which is not my taste, but intriguing nonetheless. He pulls a whip from the wardrobe and is standing there in a domineering pose when the ensuite opens and his next victim walks in, dressed in a leather waistcoat and cowboy boots.
The thing that catches the eye, however, is not the fancy stud-work, but the fact that this nearly-naked cowboy is male. And not only is he a man, he’s a man I clearly recognize.
Chapter50Bail
Friday, 20 December
It’s a remarkable feature of Muswell Hill that killing your husband is not the social faux pas that it perhaps once was. While no one seems to believe Cait is innocent (‘dark horse’, ‘it’s always the quiet ones’), everyone is extremely understanding, especially in the supermarket. The woman at the self-service tills in M&S, who knows I’m one of Cait’s friends, even asked what advice Cait would give to someone looking to unburden themselves of a partner past his sell-by date. She told me she was asking for a friend.
Tor and I spoke briefly about Zac last night. I told her I was satisfied that the ransomware was genuine, and had paid the additional money as required, but that the laptop hadn’t yet been un-encrypted. She seemed pleased, but quite jealous of my time with Zac, and asked several questions about him as he’s not responding to her texts. Of course, I’ve not told her that he’s now committed to breaking all ties.
This morning, we’re at a small and quiet coffee shop just at the top of Muswell Hill. Tor, Sophie, Aisha and I are sipping skinny lattes, staring longingly at the homemade cakes and trying to work out how best to help Cait. The breaking news for theday, we’re all delighted, surprised or disappointed to find out, is that after her Crown Court hearing, Cait has been released on conditional bail. Apparently, as the charge is for manslaughter not murder, the evidence against her is circumstantial, she’s a domestic abuse sufferer, and sole carer for her girls, she’s not a risk to anyone. However, the downside is that, as she’s no longer living rent-free at the taxpayers’ expense, there’s the issue of accommodation.
‘It would look poor for us to host a criminal,’ says Tor, clicking her new nails on the table. ‘Papers would play merry hell with it.’
‘She’s not a criminal, she’s your friend,’ I say, placing my hand over Tor’s to stop the anxious tapping, no doubt coming from being denied her route to sexual satisfaction.
‘And she has to live somewhere – her house is a burnt-out shell,’ says Sophie, who arrived flustered from school, bemoaning some boy in her class who keeps climbing out of the window.
‘Can’t she stay with her mother again?’ says Tor. ‘Isn’t that what families are for?’
‘What, like Christmas and criminal charges?’ says Sophie. She’s marking as she speaks, which appears to involve writing ‘Where’s your homework?’ across blank pages.
‘Yes, but she wants the twins to keep going to pre-school in Muswell Hill, so they experience as little change as possible,’ says Aisha.
‘But the optics, politically,’ says Tor. ‘Especially if they link this to Lawrence.’
‘Tory Politician’s House of Sin,’ I say, and smile at Tor, which she does not appreciate.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ says Sophie.
‘She’s not been found guilty.’ Aisha makes this statement in bright yellow-and-blue leggings which she says are for Ukraine, which is a nice way to help the war.
‘But she’s hardly innocent,’ says Tor. ‘We all know she had a good enough motive.’
‘We’re all innocent until proven guilty,’ I declare, which makes me as innocent as anyone. It makes you wonder about who invented that little statement.
‘No one would blame her,’ says Tor. ‘But we’ve all got to think about the risks.’
‘What risk?’ says Sophie, glaring now.
‘Having a killer in your house is a risk.’ Tor glares back.
