The elderly couple get out of the car slowly, Jeremy throwing the keys to the valet and barely glancing at his wife, who’s gingerly stepping onto the pavement, clutching her Chanel like a child holds onto a teddy bear. They head into the casino without a word to the valet or the doorman, just silent statues there to show respect to the great and the good, I suppose. Still, statues can’t wipe their arse on your leather seats like a valet can （and hopefully does）。
For the next two and a half hours I sit in my car. I eat a disgusting cheeseburger and resolve to give up meat when I get home. I smoke three cigarettes and vow to quit back in London. I listen to some terrible Spanish radio and veer between manically tapping my feet and obsessively checking my mirrors to see whether the Artemises have emerged yet. A younger crowd is pulling up, it seems the casino gets livelier as the night goes on. I’m guessing that this probably means the olds push off earlier, and I’m right. The steps are soon busy with women swathed in Hermès scarves and men waving car tickets. They are all wearing expressions which signal a mix of wealth and angry entitlement. Bang, there they are. Kathleen with a gift bag, stumbling just a little. Jeremy with a cigar. Must have been a fun night. I’m glad. I’m not a monster. It’s nice that they’re leaving the world on a high note. It’s more than Marie was given, but I must be the better person here. I’m going to decimate their entire family, the least I can allow them is a goody bag and a spin at the roulette table.
They head down the steps and Jeremy gives the valet their ticket. This is my cue. I turn on the engine and head out of the car park. I’ve told you I haven’t planned this, and I’m not being falsely modest. I have a vague idea, which seemed pretty solid back in London, but now I’m here, I’m not in any way confident that I’ll even get the chance to try it out. But I’m here, driving fast down the windy roads below the casino, following the route that the Artemis seniors will hopefully take to their villa. After a few minutes I turn onto the cliff road, darker and more bumpy. I estimate that I’m about ten minutes ahead of the couple if they drive cautiously, and I need to find the right spot – I marked it the other day, but in the dark the road seems to want to conceal it.
I’m going too fast, and I can feel the lump in my throat taking up its usual place, threatening to overwhelm me. WHERE IS THIS FUCKING SPOT? I breathe through my nose, and talk to myself out loud, ‘You’ll find it, you’ve got time, Grace. It’s OK.’
I drive past and brake, just like they teach you to do in lessons, as if anyone ever does a perfect emergency stop in real life without causing a pile-up. But the road is dead, and all I can hear is cicadas. I do a U-turn, which takes a few goes in this ridiculous vehicle, and pull into the lay-by, letting my breathing return to normal, waiting for the lump to go. I’ve got a clear view of the road from here, and if I’d missed this spot, I wouldn’t have had another before they arrived home. I wait, drinking in the silence.
Headlights. A car dipping in and out of view as it winds down towards me. I’ve got two minutes. I rev the engine, as if this tank needs some extra persuasion, and drive, holding the steering wheel with locked arms. The car comes into view – they are slow, cautious, taking their time. As I abruptly spin the wheel and accelerate towards them, I see Kathleen’s mouth form a perfect O, before she covers her head and the lights blind me. The impact of my swerve forces me back into my seat and I brake fast. The car almost bucks from the command, as if annoyed by the interruption. As I rub my head and look up, all I can see is dust from the road and a satisfyingly large gap in the stubby bushes on the side of the cliff.
I pull the car over, tuck it into the other side of the road and turn off the lights. I’ve got a little time before I have to head back, leaving Amir’s car at the club before I retrieve my hire car and go to the airport. I grab my torch and shakily pull on the latex gloves, breaking the thumb portion on my left hand. The matches and little perfume bottle go in my pocket. I cross the road and hover on the cliff edge. My plimsolls aren’t up for a big scramble and I can’t quite see how far the car has travelled until a scan with the torch shows it about 15 metres down and upside down, cradled by a bush.
I should really turn back, get to the airport, leave the scene clean. Whatever happens now, I can get away. But where would the fun be in my grandparents dying without ever knowing my role in it all? It’s vanity really, and I’m inexperienced in the art of murder – next time I won’t allow myself this indulgence. But I climb down the cliff, holding onto bits of scrubby plants and crouching low so I don’t tumble towards the darkness. I reach the car. It’s hard to tell what’s happening inside, since branches seem to crisscross the doors. I shuffle up the car on the driver’s side and twist my head upside down, shining my torch into the glass. Jeremy is suspended, his head hanging over the seatbelt. He looks uninjured, apart from being very definitely unconscious and upside down. Kathleen is clearly dead, no forensic expertise needed here, since you definitely need your head to be attached to your body to stay alive, and a tree branch has considerately removed that requirement for me.