As the thought blossomed in her mind she blushed. She should have left him a week ago. Yet here she was playing the unlikely role of hostess-with-the-most-ess, straight from the Technicolor pages of some s magazine. Last week Sarah had turned thirty. There had been no wild party, no drunken marking of the years. Sarah put it straight onto her finger, stretched out her arm and admired the sparkling gewgaw. It was a strange looking thing, a gold band inset with a row of precious and not so precious stones, the initials of which spelled Sarah: The assembled colours, a string of dark reds, blues and purples, reminded her of a bruise.
She thought it a splendid bauble, marvellous and camp. As she had twirled the ring with the tip of her thumb, Sarah had asked Martin why he had not given her a ring displaying his own initials, as she thought it would be nice for her to carry his name on her finger, rather than her own. He explained somewhat bashfully that that had actually been his first intention, but that there was no gemstone in stock representing the initial N.
Using the available jewels his ring could only have spelled out Marti. The morning after, when she was thirty years and one day old, Sarah found that, delightful as the present was, there was a price to pay. Although he knew it was something she had never done before, Martin wanted her to throw a dinner party. I want people to meet my own personal Vivien Leigh.
Against her own instincts, Sarah agreed to the dinner. Martin presented a small business card revealing the guest of honour, for whom the trap was to be set: Sarah peered at the card. A mouthful of a name. A strange blend of the banal and the exotic. Martin frowned and pocketed the card. Sometime over the years her husband had vanished and before her stood this gormless stranger. Instead, he gave her a blank look, then turned and expressed a sound filled with irritation and impatience. Sarah left the room, heading for the kitchen and the remains of that champagne bottle in the fridge.
She had fallen for him all those years ago at university because he was such a comical boy, solemn and flip at the same time. It had always been hard combination to keep up with, a kind of deadpan joviality.
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Like an earnest though grumpy puppy, Martin followed her into the kitchen, saying: Singing from the same hymn sheet? Sarah poured the entire contents of the bottle into a tumbler, while watching the stranger called Martin, as he used his sleeve to wipe away a sprinkle of crumbs which he had sprayed onto the kitchen top. You know, these days, all banking decisions are made by computer. Sarah was transfixed by his enormous, frantic pupils. What do you think I am, a blithering plonker? Sarah searched his face for signs of irony. She felt embarrassed for him.
She made another feeble attempt to defuse the tension. Just the three of us. Too many people jostling for attention. All those loose cannons. No good will come of it. Sarah noticed that it seemed greasy. For instance, battered haddock and chips. We are having dinner. Sarah watched his sallow skin, pale and gleaming with anxious perspiration. He looked as though he was about to faint. Now she felt sorry for being so stubborn. Martin stood before her, his nostrils flared, his face drained, ash coloured.
She was not in the mood to let it go. It will be an expensive, not to say interminable way of buttering the fellow up. As the kettle rattled away, Sarah gave up on the idea of a healing pot of tea and made for the stairs. When had this happened? When had her husband vanished and been replaced by this bizarre trembling hysteric.
What was going on? Was he on drugs?
Sarah knew she must escape momentarily from his presence and regain her equilibrium. But Martin had got to the stairs first and was hanging onto the newel post, blocking her way. No one could accuse me of not supporting you. Only two years ago Sarah had given up a well-paid job in publicity to promote his new company—a small advertising firm. Martin himself had worked for years as an underling in a big PR company, writing slogans and spin for celebrity clients—writers, actors, politicians. Then he decided to break free and set up as an independent, be his own boss.
Some golden handshakes were proposed for the chosen few. Despite being safe from the prospective chopper, Sarah offered herself for redundancy. She had had enough of the way publishing was going. Her decision to quit had been made easier by the mental image of her female bosses booting their more intellectual colleagues off the upward steps of the ladder with winkle-picker toes, then they used the sharpened spikes of their stilettos to kick off the venerable but genial old men beneath them.
To Sarah financial prosperity came second to getting the firm a good reputation. Once the company was thriving they could pay themselves a great whack, maybe float on the stock market and pocket a million or two. It was soon necessary to engage Justin and Mike, a couple of new employees to deal with the burgeoning client list. The Vauxhall office seemed suddenly too small. And now Sarah found herself standing at the foot of the stairs, being told by an alien who was her legal spouse that she did not support him. Bigger premises—Maybe in the centre of town—or The West End.
Silently Sarah stepped back, rolling the eternity ring round her finger with the tip of her thumb. Apart from the fact it sounded like lunacy to expand now, she wondered when she had she been squeezed out of the decision making process? Although she had voluntarily removed herself from the cut and thrust of working life by working from home, as far as she knew she was still a director of their company, and had responsibilities, if only to counsel Martin, her co-director.
She had already once saved the company from making a wild and extravagant move which they could not afford. Now Martin wanted to make an even bigger one. This was the first time he had ever made a business resolution without first consulting her. Suddenly Martin let go of the banister and stepped down to her level.
Do it for Marti. He held his arms open for a hug.
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Sarah stepped into his embrace. When his arms were around her she wondered why she had demurred. He had got himself into a state. Like a child deprived of its teddy. Perhaps then the bank would refuse anyhow, and it would all be over with. But at least she would have done her bit and the bank would, as ever, make the final decision. This morning Sarah had gone shopping, buying the best fresh produce, and during the afternoon she prepared the meal for her husband and four people whom she hardly knew: Sarah smoothed the edgy moment by calling everyone to sit.
As the guests took their seats round the prettily decorated table Kevin asked Sarah what she did—what was her job. But before she had a chance to open her mouth Martin replied on her behalf. Sarah suppressed a gasp. She wondered what on earth he must have put down on those banking forms. Maybe Martin was thinking about some legal point in the accounts, like National Insurance or pension contributions.
From that moment, once she had been introduced as a housewife, Sarah was ignored. As the guests chatted and champed their way through the crispy salad starter it was as though she was a mere ghost looking on from her position in an empty chair. She never usually went to dinner parties. Now it seemed that by trying to have one of her own, she had become not so much the domestic goddess as the domestic slave. In silence Sarah watched the guests rattle on about weather, traffic, holidays and all the other tiresome subjects which oil the discourse of society while regretting utterly having got herself roped into this make-believe, table-napkin-candles-and-cruet state of affairs.
After she had cleared away the dirty salad plates and served the main course, Sarah stretched out for the wine and topped up her glass. It was a pleasant smooth red, a sturdy Chateau Neuf du Pape. Trips across the tongue. It had cost him less than fifteen pounds. She took a glug and rolled it round in her mouth. Although she was quite happy to be excluded from the small talk, all the same she was profoundly irritated by her new-found invisibility.
Some years ago Sarah had seen documentaries about out of body experiences: They all described the same thing. First came a bright white tunnel. Then they were suddenly floating around on the ceiling watching themselves on the bed below. This dinner party, Sarah thought, was something akin to this.
Somehow she had been wiped out of the actual happening but could still see and hear everything with astonishing clarity. She looked round the table. It was like scrutinizing bizarre creatures in a brightly lit display case in the zoo—a vivarium of human life. These strangers seemed so relaxed and at home here in her house. Martin caressed the crystal glass containing his precious wine. Kevin the Czech or was it really Kevin the Cheque? Then he heaved her into a tin drum, poured on petrol and set the whole thing alight.
It was as though she had not uttered. It made legal history worldwide: Presence of a corpus delicti is not necessary to prove murder. Even without a body or a murder weapon they can catch you, incriminate you and execute you. Corpus Delicti has nothing to do with dead bodies. You mean a corpse. Peter Falconio for instance.
The Falconio case came to court, therefore the murder was not perfect. But, I mean to say, you could commit a perfect murder. But for that to be necessary there must be no actual body—not even a living person who is known to be missing. I feel sure you could kill a vagrant, for instance, and, if you successfully disposed of his remains, and, if no one was around who knew or cared that he was missing, then there would be no murder investigation, no case, no trial.
Run away or dead? Sarah knew the case they were talking about. It was all over the papers. A young woman, Jane Grimshaw, had gone missing. A week had gone by since anyone had heard from her. Her mobile phone had been found down a drain, near to the pub where she had gone for a drink before she vanished. They love the cameras, these people. Sarah wondered if perhaps she really was undergoing a near-death experience.
Martin talked over her: Like the partying, pub-going Yorkshire Ripper was a loner! Sarah laughed aloud as Lisa leaned forward and bestowed one of her irritating winsome smiles upon Kevin the Czech and said: Was Lisa finally making an unforgivable social gaff? Kevin had a distinct air of gayness about him.
The wedding finger, Sarah saw, sported a gold band—but then, maybe he had gone through a civil partnership. Sarah wanted to take hold of Martin and shake him. They had done the unforgivable thing: How much easier the evening could have been with a nice Czech wife instead of the insufferable Miss Know-it-all from next door? Kevin lifted his hands, as though guarding himself from criticism.
How old are they? Sarah could not believe that despite this eruption of cosy domesticity at the table, Max and Tess were still on the trail of serial killers.
Their arrogance betrays them. Sarah had to stop herself laughing aloud. Similar bulky figure too. And if they want to get away with their achievement and all its glory they must suppress their pride in their super-human act, or at least keep it to themselves, while shrouding it in quiet reason and empathy. Was he bored by all this gory talk? He looked perfectly at ease. His elbows rested on the table, his chin balancing on the tip of his steepled fingers, his dark rat eyes darting from one pair of moving lips to the next.
Perhaps when you usually spent your days adding and subtracting numbers, it was fun to be included on gruesome little junket like this. Sarah caught a flash of green and white—chewed potato and pea. Most psychopaths are extremely intelligent narcissists. Is that what we learned in school history as The Sudetanland? Kevin smiled and nodded. You should meet some of my clients. He shot Martin a quizzical look.
Sarah wondered whether this had been some vital information previously supplied on the bank forms. Max Latham, specialities include company law and murder. It was obvious she was not in the habit of contradicting the great man. He can do everything.
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Sarah snorted, imagining Max with long red crinkled hair, wearing a mauve velvet dress, floating lifelessly along in one of those water-filled ditches of his. For the first time since they had all sat down Martin made eye contact with her, giving a breathy tut. Sarah decided to interpret his exclamation as a signal for her to take away the plates and bring in pudding. It was going to happen.
Tomorrow morning she would leave him. Max continued sounding off, his back slightly turned away from her as Sarah gathered his plate. She felt as though she was playing the role of a parlour maid in some seedy Patrick Hamilton boarding house. Yes, she had indeed spent the best part of the day peeling and chopping and shoving things in and out of the oven.
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Yes, she knew that these days dinner party hostesses got caterers in, or bought pre-prepared stuff and passed it off as their own, but if Sarah was going to do anything, she wanted to do it properly. For surely that is what it must be. Ergo, as long as the body remains undiscovered, and no person is actually missed, apparently there has been no suspicious death.
And that is the only secret of the perfect murder. She wondered whether it was a tic. Sarah strolled out to the kitchen, suppressing the urge to yawn. She put the dishes on the draining board, relieved to be out of the dining room and away from this gathering from hell. Even with the tap running she could still hear Max pontificating. God, he was an arrogant arsehole. Marvellous name for him: Unfortunately during the argument with Martin after the guests leave, a knife accidentally ends up in someone's side.
Their problems are only just beginning. Tess is curious when she sees the police arrive next door and tries to find out the full story as potential research for a new book. She is visited by a police detective and invited to go to the station to tell them what happened at the party. Keen to discover as much as she can, she goes willingly but perhaps it was a mistake to be so inquisitive. The story is told from the points of view of several of the guests at the dinner party. I am sure that many readers will, like me, be able to foresee the eventual outcome, but the journey, with its twists and turns, is entertaining.
Details of the author's other books with links to reviews can be found on the Books page. More European crime fiction reviews can be found on the Reviews page. Susan White, England November Details of the author's other books with links to reviews can be found on the Books page.