Who Killed Anne-Marie?

  Daniel and Anne-Marie’s marriage isn’t just on the rocks, it’s about to go six feet under. Anne Marie Mills is out of work, out of love and out of whisky. Everyone else is out of patience. When Anne-Marie is found dead who is to blame? The neighbours who despised her drunken rants? The husband who wondered how much more he could take? Or is there another killer in the neighbourhood?

  “Masterfully written sequel to What Lies in the Dark … superb and suspenseful thriller about a marriage gone deathly wrong.”

  LM Bryski, Book of Birds and Blood Chill

  For Marie and Fran, who has mysteriously left the country. And for the K Thompsons

  Chapter One

  The overcooked eggs are not so much sunny-side up as misery-side down.

  Misery is what emanates as his knife slices through the cold yolk. It is the main ingredient in the tough bacon sandwich but Daniel still savours every single bite of the over-salted burnt mess.

  He burps mightily, releasing another stench of misery into the air. The only other sound comes from the loud rhythmic chop of a knife hitting a plate a little too hard. He had made this for her: he had waited patiently for her to come downstairs, eaten his own breakfast calmly, promised himself repeatedly that he wouldn’t be the first one to crack, only to find himself snatching and shovelling her share, now too angry to notice that he is already beyond full.

  This is all too good for her, she doesn’t deserve such a feast. He does so fucking much for her and she just spits it right back in his face. If she did come downstairs now, she would only sit on the edge of the chair, nibbling morosely at a dry piece of toast, if she ate at all. No, these greasy remains are his alone to savour, he won’t let her wreck another one of life’s joys. He has so few left now. Good food is reserved for the person who does the washing up – not just the breakfast items that he dirtied but also those slimy plates and that mouldy bowl she promised to wash days ago. He is going to clean everything today, that’s why he deserves both portions. In fact, he deserves more than breakfast, especially if he also cleans and sanitises the sticky kitchen. Hell, if he dusts the house then he deserves a frickin’ medal.

  So many jobs she has been promising to do “later” when she is “feeling better” that he will have to do now. It’s not like he hasn’t been working all week, it’s not like his job is hard or demanding, oh no. He just wanted to spend the day relaxing in front of the telly, just a nice day off. But no, he has to do all of her jobs, he is the one who has to find the source of that smell while she just … while she just lies around, doing … what? What has her attention 24/7? What does she do all day? Maybe he should be asking who has she been doing all day? He has heard the rumour regarding his wife and Paul next door but he dismissed it with a chuckle. But maybe, maybe there was someone else, someone aroused by her unwashed smell and … Daniel’s eyes stray over to the overflowing recycling bin. No. He knows what she does all day. An affair would be almost preferable to this. Cheaper too.

  The two portions of breakfast sit uneasily in his stomach, and he slurps his coffee, letting the cooling, bitter liquid wash his own bitterness away.

  It is not worth this. He can’t stand the thought of another fight. He just wants one peaceful day. It won’t take him that long to tidy up and it would make everything so much easier. He could give the kitchen a quick going over and find out what’s causing that smell in the bathroom, then get the washing machine going, do the shopping and spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing in front of the telly. Maybe, she might join him, they could watch the match together like they used to, cuddle up with a few beers; maybe just for once she will even stop at a few beers, and maybe they could order a take-away and maybe, now he is really fantasising here, maybe they could talk to each other without shouting. Just like they used to.

  Upstairs, he hears a door softly open and then a pause. Daniel holds his breath as she pitter-patters down the stairs, what kind of mood is she in? Please let today be a good day. She slinks into the room, her head bowed low, making eye contact impossible. There is a sharp scent as she scurries past. She hasn’t bothered washing or even brushing her hair. She is wearing the same pyjamas as she was three days ago, and they had stunk then. The smell assures him that today is not going to be a good mood day.

  The smell smothers him with memories, and the old feelings of anger flood back, memories of the last argument. The insults she had screamed. Now she is pretending he doesn’t exist, just like his mother used to. He hates that and she knows it. She has spent years finding out his pet hates, just to use them against him. He was willing to put the argument behind them and move on, but she isn’t. She is going to continue with her childish antics. Why? What did he do this time? Is it because he accidentally woke her up, clattering the breakfast pans? Well, he has to eat sometime and it’s not like its six o’clock in the morning. Or is it because he hadn’t saved her any breakfast? She might be even more annoyed when she sees that there is no more food left. Well she should have gone shopping, shouldn’t she? Like she promised. It’s not his fault.

  But it’s up to him to break the silence. He can do this, he urges, he can be the better partner. “Good morning,” he mutters, trying to force a smile on to his face.

  Wordlessly she opens the fridge and he is answered instead by the waft of something rotten, then the unmistakable sound of something pouring. He knows there is no milk in the fridge, no juice. She is starting early again. Despite what they agreed.

  Daniel will say nothing about it, this time. He knows what she will say: “I have a headache” or “I am just having one”. Or she will cuss him out, knowing he hates hearing her swear. Let her be the one who talks about it, wait for her to be ready, that’s what they tell him.

  Unprovoked, she slams the fridge door shut, knowing she is doing something wrong, but not giving a shit. Then, quickly, she scuttles back upstairs, taking not just her glass but the bottle as well, along with his already diminished hopes for a peaceful day.

  Daniel sighs, the anger draining back into his usual resignation. Is this really still all his fault? Is she really still his problem? He knows he should leave but she would kick up such a fuss. Daniel really does not like fuss. Maybe he should start looking, just for somewhere to escape to. Somewhere to go on the really bad days, but then he can’t leave her alone on those days. He could ask friends for help, but that would mean admitting … and besides, they don’t have any friends left, even the neighbours have lost their friendly smiles.

  She would never agree to a divorce either, but then he has never asked. He has screamed it a few times and so has she but they have never taken the idea seriously. He could ask quietly, for once, in a tone that is not fucking around. Maybe then she would cry and promise to change. Maybe he could use it as a way of encouraging her to seek help, professional help this time. Maybe she will agree to a divorce, since she “fucking hates him”, and has told him repeatedly that she doesn’t need him. After four and a half years of marriage, Daniel can see that. She has never needed him, only his wallet. No, that is not true, that is unfair. But still. Still. Maybe. No. Just keep telling yourself that you love her, he thinks, that’s the easiest option.

  He switches on the radio to drown out the accusing silence. He is tired of trying to figure out how to solve a problem like Anne-Marie. He is tired of cleaning up after her. He is tired of doing everything for her and getting nothing but abuse in return. The problem is he has married a woman who acts too much like his mother, and he won’t act like his father did, no matter what. Even if the bitch does deserve it. Best not to think about the similarities. Or about his parents, dead and forgotten is best – dead, rotten and forgotten. Whilst his wife is alive, rotten and … no, no more, concentrate on the wa
shing up.

  It is disgusting. Why have they let it get this bad? He should have stepped in earlier, but she said she would do it. He shouldn’t have to do everything around here. It only takes a few minutes to wash the dishes, it wouldn’t have taken her much effort or time, she could even attempt it whilst drunk, it wasn’t that hard, but no, she would rather host a pity party in her bedroom. Her bedroom! His and her bedrooms! Whose stupid idea was that? Her mother, dear old Sherri. It had been her sneered suggestion when Anne-Marie had claimed that she needed so many nightcaps because of Daniel’s “snoring”.

  He doesn’t snore! He knows he doesn’t. Any excuse to separate them. Sherri always closed her eyes to her daughter’s drinking; it was always Daniel’s fault, not her precious Anne-Marie’s.

  He needs to man up: he should tell Anne-Marie to leave, kick her out to live with Sherri. He shouldn’t have to be the one who leaves – he pays for this house, he maintains it while she does fuck all. His hand scrubs angrily against dry crud firmly embedded onto the bowls. She should be the one who leaves, goes back to her mother. Let’s see how well they cope with each other again after all these days. Then they’d acknowledge that he is a saint, and they’d stop with their snide comments, their guilt trips. Their affair accusations. It was just one fucking kiss. It meant nothing.

  Yes, he is going to tell her to leave right … tomorrow. No, he isn’t even going to tell her, he is just going to pack her bags and put her in a taxi. Change the locks, disconnect the doorbell, take the phone off the hook, hammer the windows shut. Hell, why take such petty precautions? He should put the house up for sale, change his name, grow a beard, emigrate to a warmer country. Maybe her father had the right idea. He rants as he scrubs. He decides that the heavily chipped mouldy plates are not worth keeping and throws them in the bin instead. She won’t notice as long as she has a clean wine glass and it doesn’t even need to be clean any more. It takes over an hour of scrubbing, running more water and draining away gallons of greasy, filthy water before he finishes. An hour of fantasising about getting rid of his wife, one way or another, and shacking up with a cute blonde.

  Nothing changes upstairs despite his clattering and clanging. She is still up there, with that bottle, like an evil presence in the house. A fermenting storm. He turns the vacuum cleaner on with a little glee, something to make her “headache” worse, maybe even make her feel guilty that he is the one doing the cleaning – again, despite what she promised. Maybe the constant noise will be enough to drive her out of her room and hopefully even out of the house. Daniel turns back to his fantasies about throwing her out, triumphantly slamming the door, yelling, “Don’t come back!” to the applause of the neighbours. Of her quietly exiting, in a taxi, tears running down her face, vowing never to touch a drop of alcohol again. They joyfully reconcile a month later, never to part again. Then they will have two kids and a dog, and he will never have to see a spirit bottle or his mother-in-law again. He can dream. In reality, she will be scratching, biting and cursing from the moment he tries to pick her up, and there would probably be kicking too. There is no way to get her out the house without a fuss. Even if he took the coward’s option of changing the locks the next time she left the house, she would just smash in the windows, or scream on the pavement until he gave in and opened the door. No neighbours would applaud that. They would probably take her side too, everyone always takes her side. It isn’t fair.

  He can’t do it anyway, he doesn’t have the guts. She took away his spine and his already diminished balls the minute he said “I do” at the altar. He can dream all he likes about leaving her, but he can’t do it. End of. Still, on the bright side, the amount she costs to maintain is still cheaper than a divorce.

  He is stuck with Anne-Marie, but it’s not like she gets in his way that much. Yes, the arguments are bad sometimes, but they are fairly infrequent. Yes, it would be nice to come home to something more welcoming, but it could be worse. Maybe they should get a dog, a replacement for the baby they are probably not going to have, but could he trust her alone with a dog? It isn’t worth finding out, and he would have to walk the darn thing every day. It would be another thing he would have to clean up after, and Anne-Marie would probably train it to attack him. But it would be a friendly face. Maybe when they start talking again, he could hint about a dog, see how she reacts. It might even help her, be a motivation for her to leave the house.

  He finishes vacuuming in thoughtful silence and then he mops with little fanfare. No longer will he tread in something disgusting when he comes in, late at night, on a snack run. The kitchen could do with a better clean, one involving a stronger disinfectant, but it will do. She will only mess it up again anyway.

  Upstairs, to the bathroom, he can do this. Taking a deep breath, he darts in, trying not to inhale as he forces open the grubby window. Oh god, what has she been doing in here?

  Normally he avoids this bathroom, using the en suite in “his” bedroom, but the smell penetrating the hallway has become too strong to ignore.

  Is this traces of sick? When was she sick? Why hadn’t she told him? Why couldn’t she clean up after herself for once? No wonder it smelt like something died in here. He didn’t think it had got this bad again. Well he did, but there is no point in admitting it – it’s another unapproachable, like the baby, their marriage, his parents. So many things they don’t talk about by mutual agreement. One of those subjects that if he even breathes a mention of, she will start screaming at him, saying he doesn’t understand. She is right, he doesn’t understand, he barely even cares. He just can’t reach her any more, can’t even have a normal conversation. It is pointless to even try.

  Is it so bad he needs to invite Sherri over? He can’t stand the thought of that chain-smoking witch polluting his house, cackling about his shortcomings, and encouraging Anne-Marie to drink that little bit more, but it would mean Anne-Marie willingly coming out of her room. Willingly socialising for once. She never misses the opportunity to complain about him to Sherri, and Sherri will coo and scold, maybe even suggest that Anne-Marie stays with her for a few days. Sherri could scold her about being too thin and make food that she will actually eat, without sounding “insensitive”. Sherri would be able to get her to shower without argument.

  Not today, he won’t call Sherri today, he really needs a day off. Maybe next weekend, if Anne-Marie hasn’t improved, maybe. He could pretend that he has to go on a business trip and ask Sherri to stay with her for a few days. Then he could have a few days alone in a hotel room, with room service. But then, what will he say when they start asking questions? Laying out the guilt trips, they might even start again with the affair accusations. Sherri is a suspicious woman: if she saw so much as a hotel receipt she would explode, but then, maybe he could use that to his advantage, maybe he could go away, stay in a hotel, then “accidentally” leave the receipt on show. The shit would not just hit the fan, it would bury it. Sherri would insist Anne-Marie leaves, for good this time, and there would be no pleas from her brother Peter, to take her back because she “needs” him and she has changed. But then there will be confrontation, yelling, everyone thinking the worst of him, and they would tear him apart in the divorce courts, take every penny he has, expose him as a cowardly worm. No, the fake affair is a bad idea. He needs to face the facts, there is no way of getting rid of his wife that easily. And it’s not worth involving Sherri.

  The bathroom smells lemony fresh again, the house is vaguely presentable. He is going to go; maybe if she hears him leaving, then maybe she will come out of her room, maybe even shower now the bathroom is clean. Maybe she will be in a better mood, maybe she will stop at one glass, and maybe pigs will fly.

  At the supermarket he picks up enough easy-to-cook meals to last him the week and a couple more in case she feels hungry – easy things for her to heat no matter what state she is in. Anything to stop her attempting to cook again. He finds a couple of snacks to go with telly watching. He deserves them after all the cleaning he’s
done this morning, and, because he knows he is in for another lonely night, he adds a pack of beer. And it’s cheaper to buy two packs so he might as well get two. Then he pauses. This is the decision he doesn’t want to make. They are out of wine and spirits, she won’t be happy with just beer. If he wants a quiet night, he needs to buy a few bottles. But then, that’s not being supportive, or is it being supportive? If he buys them, she will scream at him for buying a temptation, but if he doesn’t buy them, she will scream at him for ignoring her needs, for making her headaches worse. Maybe he will buy them and let her have one bottle at a time, an offering when the volcano erupts. The last time he didn’t buy anything she tore apart the house, looking for hidden caches – they still haven’t replaced the lamp or the drawer. And then she will go, without showering, back to the corner shop. He was beyond mortified when she was caught stealing, he can’t let that happen again. Maybe a couple of bottles, he could hide some in the car, after all, he will probably need them for himself too. She is easier to love when she is drunk. Even easier if they are both drunk.

  They had met in a bar, no surprises there. Anne-Marie had made the first move, came over to talk, and he brought her a drink, and another and another. Daniel fell straight away for her smile. He wasn’t used to anyone smiling at him. She had fallen straight away for his wallet. But there was so much he had admired then about Anne-Marie, she was not afraid of anything. He, having spent most of his life hiding in fear, loved her reckless fearlessness. It was like being able to kiss a tornado in those first few months, wild, exhilarating, never knowing which way she would turn, so passionate, so exciting, so fun. Things he had only ever thought about before, he finally felt because of her.

  And alcohol.

  Which is why he needs the beer.

  They had fallen in love drunk and they can’t sober up now.