‘That’s fine, dear, just come around the back, knock on the window and I’ll let you in.’
She hadn’t volunteered a key to the front door, and I hadn’t liked to ask. Another day or two, and I’d thank her and move home permanently. By then, I’d have figured out a plan to ensure our financial security. There wasn’t a choice.
It was strange to return to my home, to push open the door and hear the deafening silence. And then it wasn’t silent… it was filled with echoes of my father’s laugh, my mother’s slightly off-key voice singing along with the radio, their voices entwining, separating, floating. I stood in the hallway and listened to them, straining to hear as the voices grew softer, desperate to cling onto them as they faded into a soft hiss, and then there was nothing. I cried when the weight of silence hung heavily around me again. I cried louder: for the charming, adoring father I’d loved, for the lying cheat of a man I’d never known, and who would never be able to explain what he’d done. I cried for my mother, for myself, for what I intended to do.
I sank to the floor, resting my head against the wall behind, letting the tears flow. When they stopped, I swore I wasn’t going to cry again.
Our phone was kept in the kitchen. I pulled it over to the table, the cord stretching taut, and dialled the clinic to ask about my mother.
‘Bartholomew Clinic, how may I help you?’
‘Hi, my name is Lissa McColl, I’m enquiring about my mother, Cathy McColl.’
‘Just hold, please, and I’ll put you through to the nurse.’
I could have rung the consultant directly, but I wanted to know how my mother was doing, how she’d slept, if she’d said anything… if she’d mentioned me.
‘Ms McColl, hello, my name is Barbara, I’m the nurse on duty on your mother’s floor today.’
‘How is she?’ I crossed my fingers, praying the nurse would give me something better than as well as can be expected.
‘She slept very well all night. This morning she was assisted to have a shower and has been sitting in the lounge with other residents since.’
I felt a lessening of the tension. This sounded good… almost normal. ‘That sounds like she’s making a great recovery. Do you think she’ll be able to come home soon?’
Silence greeted my question. ‘I’m sorry,’ Barbara said, ‘I was informed you were aware of your mother’s condition.’
‘That she was in a withdrawn catatonic state, yes. But it sounds like she’s coming out of it.’
‘I’m sorry, I seem to have given you a false impression. Your mother requires assistance with all activities of daily living. She was taken to the shower on a hoist, and then to the lounge in a wheelchair. Despite encouragement, she makes no attempt to move of her own accord and shows no reaction to anything or anybody. She’s eating fairly well when assisted by a member of staff. She isn’t speaking and still stares directly ahead.’
The nurse had painted a clear and shocking picture. ‘I see, thank you. Will you tell her I love her, and I’ll be in to see her in a few days. I’ve a lot to sort out first.’ I wanted to visit my mother, to be able to meet her gaze and reassure her that I’d look after her for however long it took. I couldn’t do that until I’d dealt with Olivia Burton.
‘Yes, of course, and please ring any time.’
I dropped the handset back on its stand, folded my arms on the table, and rested my head. It was several minutes before I was able to straighten up. My second call was to the number the police officers had given me.
‘Hello,’ I said when it was answered. ‘My name is Lissa McColl, my father, Mark McColl, was found dead in his car on 5th April. The officers who came to tell us were very kind and said if I had any questions, I could ring this number.’
‘Of course, Ms McColl, just hold and I’ll put you through to someone who can help.’
They had a strange taste in hold music or maybe they hoped the theme music from Schindler’s List would imbue the person waiting with calm optimism… or make them cry. It took a second to clear the lump from my throat when the music was halted abruptly and a pleasant voice said, ‘Ms McColl, I’m so sorry for your loss, how can we help you?’
‘There’s a couple of things. First, I was wondering if the post-mortem results were back yet?’ It seemed suddenly important to know how my father had died, if he’d suffered, if he’d been there for a long time hoping for someone to come and help him. ‘I believe the paramedics thought it might have been a heart attack or a stroke.’
‘Okay, I’m bringing the report up now. No, it wasn’t either. It appears your father died from a ruptured cerebral aneurysm.’ He cleared his throat. ‘That’s when a blood vessel in the brain develops a weakness and bursts,’ he explained. ‘It would, according to the report I’m reading, have been very sudden, and very quick.’
‘That’s a relief.’ And it was. I hadn’t wanted the father I’d loved to have suffered. The other man, the lying, cheating, adulterous bigamist – him, I’d have liked to have died very very slowly. ‘So does that mean his body will be released?’
‘Yes, the inquest will simply be a formality. I see you’ve arranged an undertaker. We’ll liaise with them if that’s easier for you.’
It was. One less thing for me to worry about. ‘Yes, thank you, that would be very helpful.’
He was also helpful in giving me advice about my father’s car which was parked in the police station car park. It could stay there until I arranged to have it sold. It wasn’t too old; it should bring a few thousand. Enough to keep me in funds for a while.
I hung up, satisfied with my work. Now I could turn my thoughts to a more pressing matter.
How I was going to get rid of Olivia Burton.
14
The best ideas come when you let your mind wander. I stayed in our bungalow until the light started to fade. Whatever I did, I had the advantage of surprise. An attack on Olivia should easily pass as a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I’d kept her photograph. It was in the back pocket of my jeans. I pulled it out and looked carefully at this woman whose life I needed to take. She looked hefty, was she also tall? I was barely five feet, and slight. But I was quick and clever. Sometimes, that was better.
The following day, hoping to catch a glimpse of Olivia, I made the weary complicated journey to the Gloucestershire town of Thornbury, twelve miles north of Bristol. It was a complicated journey – bus to Bath, a further bus to Bristol, then another to Thornbury where the bus took me to within ten minutes’ walk of the house. It made sense to survey the area, see what my options were.
It would have been perfect if I could have laid my hands on some quick-acting poison… ricin or sarin gas maybe. It would have made it all so much easier. Lacking this option, I was stuck with a messy, and much more difficult plan of attack. A variation of the one I’d used on Jemma years before.
A sharp knife. Knowing where to insert it. And every successful killer’s weapon – the element of surprise.
I couldn’t come up with a better plan and simply needed to find a way to implement it. There was no room for doubt, or second thoughts. Not even when, six years after killing Jemma, I could still remember those last moments. The strange sensation as her eyes locked on mine.