‘No reason.’

  ‘Look, I’d better go.’ Liv did the looking-at-watch gesture, though she wasn’t wearing one.

  ‘It’s five to eleven. Do you have somewhere you need to be?’

  ‘No. No, I’ll just … I don’t know, I might do a bit of shopping. Are you going straight from here to meet Sondra Halliday? I’ll walk you to the tube.’

  So Charlie was getting the tube, was she? That was news to her. She couldn’t be bothered to tell Liv she wasn’t, in fact, meeting Halliday. Clearly Liv hadn’t picked up on the rather obvious clue provided by the words, ‘I was supposed to be’.

  Because she doesn’t care. She only cares about getting you out of the way.

  Charlie forced herself not to mention Gibbs’ name again as they paid the bill, and again as they walked along the busy road, raising their voices to be heard above the traffic.

  When they arrived at the entrance to the underground, she managed to produce a last-minute display of warmth and affection: all fake. She needed Liv to be convinced, so that she’d go off and do whatever it was she needed to do – so she wouldn’t be on her guard.

  After the hugs and the see-you-soons, Charlie walked slowly down the steps to the underground. When she got to the bottom, she counted to ten. Then she turned round and hurried back up to ground level. Her phone was buzzing in her bag. She decided to ignore it.

  She looked around. No immediate sign of Liv. And hundreds of people who weren’t Liv, obstructing her view.

  Charlie ran towards the station. If Liv was catching a train to Rawndesley, on her way to see Gibbs, why was she in such a hurry? With Simon, Sam and the Snowman all in London today for the big briefing, and Sellers busy with Sondra Halliday, Gibbs would be holding the fort at the nick. He wouldn’t be free to see Liv until early evening.

  Charlie’s heart pitched forward inside her chest as she caught a glimpse of the furry collar of her sister’s coat. Was it her? The walk said yes – hips swaying from side to side more than they needed to. Then the glossy blonde head came into view. Yes, that was her.

  Gotcha.

  Liv was in the queue to go through the barrier. She had a ticket in her hand. She must have bought it before meeting Charlie so that she’d be all prepared for her day. That was interesting.

  Charlie pulled her own return ticket out of her pocket and picked up her pace, determined not to lose sight of her quarry. It wasn’t every day that an opportunity like this presented itself. She was going to enjoy playing Follow That Liar.

  3

  from Origami by Kim Tribbeck

  Who remembers the unpainted wooden door with the silver handle, the one I mentioned a while ago and then never explained?

  The police remember it, I’m sure – but then they know the whole story, and it’s not one you’d forget in a hurry.

  The door is in my house. It divides the main part of the house from the cellar. (I never know whether to call it a cellar or a basement. There’s no wine in it, so cellar feels wrong. And basement sounds creepy. Let’s call it the lower-ground-floor flat beneath my house.)

  You’re right: I’m putting off telling you my secret. What if you hate me once you know? Actually, I’ve just remembered: I only care about your opinion because I know you all like me. You’re my select few. You’ve paid to come and see me, or to buy my book. That’s something I wish I could make people in my personal life do, to prove they’re really keen. Let them put their money where their mouths are.

  I’d make an excellent hooker, appreciating payment as I do. All the men who’ve had sex with me over the years and not paid – not a moment went by when I didn’t doubt their level of commitment.

  Right, here goes. And if you stop liking me once you’ve heard my secret, I’ll stop giving a shit what you think, so that’ll be easy.

  My new detective friends liked me more once I told them, but that’s because they can only hold in their minds two categories of person: Not A Murderer and A Murderer. As soon as I explained, they thought, ‘Ah, yes – an unscrupulous bitch but Not A Murderer’. I was flattered. It was like getting into the top stream for English all over again.

  Okay, so before I start, you need to understand the layout of the building where I live. It’s four storeys tall, two rooms wide – one on either side of the front door or the stairs – and only one room deep. They’re big rooms, but still, as houses go, it’s an oddity. Gabe and I nicknamed it Flat Stanley when we first bought it.

  The part I inhabit, the main house, is three floors: ground, first and second. Then there’s the lower-ground-floor flat, which in the past has been part of the house, but it can also be self-contained. At the moment it’s rented out to a doctor from Copenhagen, Nils Danius. He and I hardly speak, though whenever we do I wind him up by insisting his name means ‘Do not resuscitate’ in Danish.

  The lower-ground-floor flat has separate access from the street. It has its own front door, reached by descending ten or so steps from pavement level, so it can easily work as a separate residence, but only if the wooden door between the house and the cellar remains closed and locked.

  You can lock it from either side. Since Nils Danius took up residence, there has been no key in the lock. He doesn’t have access to a key. I do. If I wanted to, I could open the door and invade his territory, but I don’t. I keep the key tactfully far away from the door, to remind myself that, for the time being, I mustn’t even think about going in there. Not that I want to.

  I used to want to. Every night, towards the end of my relationship with Gabe. I suppose I should introduce him properly: Gabriel Kearns. On paper he’s still my husband, but we no longer live together. We’d been married for about nine years when we realised each of us was regularly disturbed in the night by the snoring or fidgeting of the other. Our guest room – the only other room in the house with a comfortable bed in it – was in the converted basement. Nils Danius now sleeps in that bed, but he didn’t then, and one day Gabe and I realised our marriage wouldn’t fall apart if we didn’t share a bed all night every night. (It would fall apart later for other reasons.) We could still have sex – on the sofa, usually, with Gogglebox on in the background – and then we could both get a decent night’s sleep in different rooms, two floors apart. This discovery thrilled us both.

  (Enjoy your smug laughter while you can, youngsters. Sleep matters. You’ll realise that once you turn forty. This kind of thing will happen to you too.)

  The one who commuted to the lower ground floor was always me, since I’m capable of moving my brain cells and limbs after 10 p.m. and Gabe isn’t. Our relationship improved once we were no longer exhausted all the time, but it still wasn’t perfect. It had never been perfect. That’s why I needed a lover, whose name was Liam.

  Hands up all those who expected me to accept an imperfect husband and not defend myself with a lover? Nope. Sorry. I’ve always believed fidelity should be earned with good behaviour, not taken as read. Demonstrate to me that you can load a dishwasher in a way that doesn’t make me want to start my next sentence with the words, ‘Only a lunatic …’ and then we’ll talk sexual exclusivity.

  Liam was a fan, or so he said. He emailed me via my website to tell me that I was his favourite comedian. If this sounds as if I’m summarising, I’m not. His message read, ‘You are my favourite comedian.’ No ‘Dear Kim’, no ‘Warm Best Wishes’ at the end. Still, this gave him the edge over Gabe, whose favourite comedian is Larry David.

  I wrote back one of my standard ‘Thank you so much’ emails and Liam replied straight away: ‘You’re not brilliant, but all the other stand-ups I’ve seen are dire.’ I replied, ‘Actually, I am brilliant.’ ‘Meet me for a drink and I’ll explain why you’re not,’ he fired back. ‘Be brilliant rather than dire at making me want to have a drink with you and maybe I will,’ was my response.

  We met for a drink and it very soon turned into more. I found Liam incredibly attractive, partly because he was nothing like Gabe – he was blonder, bigger, stronger-looking – and partly because he hardly ever smiled or spoke. He was a mystery to me. He lived with his sister and refused to explain why, or admit that an explanation was required beyond, ‘Some people live with their siblings, just as others live with their spouses. What more is there to say?’

  Sex with Liam always made me think, ‘Yes, he’s worth bothering with and this is why – I must remember this, how I feel now.’ The nothingness around the sex, on the other hand, was perplexing. One evening the word ‘bored’ came into my mind. I knew something more was needed or else I wouldn’t be able to make it last. That’s when I had a brilliant idea: a way to make an advantage out of Liam’s silence.

  I invited him to my lower-ground-floor lair at midnight. It couldn’t have been more straightforward. I knew Gabe never fell asleep later than eleven. Barring an emergency, he’d be dead to the world until his alarm went off at seven the next morning.

  On the agreed night, I did something I’d never done before when I reached the lower ground floor. I moved the key from the house side of the door to the cellar side, and I turned it in the lock. Now Gabe couldn’t get in even if he wanted to. Now my underground lair was mine alone, to do with as I liked. Then I unlocked the door to outside, and waited for Liam to arrive.

  He turned up at midnight as arranged and we spent our first whole night together. It was amazing in a way that defies description, partly – no, mainly – because of that locked door, Gabe’s proximity, the whole secret cellar thing. Do with that gory psychological detail what you will.

  I caught up on sleep between 7.30 a.m. and 2 p.m., while Gabe was out at work. Thank God for the schedule of a stand-up comedian, I thought to myself; it’s lucky I’m not an accountant or a chiropodist, or almost anything else. (Also lucky for people with money and feet, not only for me.)

  It turned into a regular thing. Not every night, but two or three times a week. Sometimes four. Liam would arrive at midnight, spend the night with me in the basement, and leave at 6 a.m., a safe hour before Gabe’s alarm was due to go off. Liam’s sister worked nights, so she never knew what was going on. ‘She wouldn’t like it,’ was the most Liam would say on the subject. ‘She’s a worrier.’

  I never worried. I loved living two lives, one on either side of the wooden door. For those of you hoping for drama and retribution, I’m going to disappoint you. Nothing went wrong. No nosy insomniac neighbour stuck his oar in to ruin everything; Gabe never heard any suspicious noises. If someone had walked into our house at night through the main front door, he might have heard them and thought, even in his sleep, ‘Wrong sound to be hearing now’, but from the master bedroom it’s impossible to hear a person entering the building on the lower ground floor.

  I had a plan in case of emergencies. In the incredibly unlikely event of Gabe waking up at 2 a.m. and coming to seek me out – which I figured would only happen if he was ill, otherwise even if he were awake he wouldn’t want to disturb me – he’d find the wooden door at the top of the stairs to the basement locked. He’d be puzzled, and probably start knocking and calling my name. ‘What? I’m asleep!’ I’d yell in a fake sleep-fogged voice, while Liam quickly dressed. ‘Hang on a minute, Gabe, for Christ’s sake! Give me a chance!’

  Would Gabe, at that point, think, ‘Hm, this is suspicious. I can’t get into my cellar the usual way, so I’ll run outside, down the steps, and get in through the other door’? I didn’t think he’d ever do that. He’d wait there, wondering what the hell was happening, until I came to let him in.

  While he waited, Liam and I would proceed on tiptoes to the other door, the one to the street. I’d unlock it, Liam would slip out into the darkness, and I’d call out, ‘Gabe? Gabe?’ Then I’d say, loudly, ‘Fuck! I’m an idiot!’ I’d then lock that door and hurry to unlock the other one. ‘I went to the wrong door,’ I’d tell Gabe. ‘I was half asleep and thought you were outside, knocking to get in – silly me!’ There’s no way Gabe would have suspected me of secretly letting my lover out of the house. He’d probably have asked why I’d locked the door and I would have said, ‘I don’t know – I always lock both doors before I go to sleep as a matter of course, for security.’

  None of this ever happened. I successfully deceived my husband. Past tense. My two-year cellar adventure with Liam is over, as is my marriage to Gabe.

  When I told the police, the part they found hardest to believe was that I got away with such a close-quarters deception for so long. I assured them that I did, that Gabe, Liam and I had all survived unscathed – because in real life, contrary to every book and movie and Netflix drama you can think of, the loved ones of depraved adulteresses sometimes don’t die in tragic accidents or come down with fatal illnesses. I know! Pretty surprising, isn’t it, after what we’ve been led to believe? You really can have sex with a man who isn’t your husband without prompting a victim-blaming deity to have him clipped purely to spite you.

  Still, maybe the reason Gabe’s still alive is because I mainly only cheated on him while he was asleep. When he was awake, I was faithful to him. That ought to count for something. That’s a reasonable compromise. I said all this to the police, who couldn’t tell if I was joking.

  Tuesday, 6 January 2015

  I return from the hospital to an empty house; hardly surprising since I live alone. It feels strange and predictable at the same time. Normally I love turning my key in the front door and knowing that everything will be exactly as I left it. I used to dread coming home when I lived with Gabe, and not only because of Gabe himself. There were all the tiny irritations to contend with: the bin liner attached only to one side of the kitchen bin, drooping down low on the other; the jar of Nescafé with the gold foil seal only half torn away, because why waste time tearing off the whole thing when you can shake the coffee powder out of one side of the jar forever?

  Today, because I am now officially someone with No-Grandmother-Not-Even-A-Shit-Grandmother, the emptiness feels too much. I would quite like, I think, to walk into the kitchen and see two discarded pairs of shoes under the table and a pair of balled-up socks on the dresser shelf, stuffed between the cereal bowls and the dinner plates.

  There are other men. Perhaps I could get the strewn shoes and the balled-up socks without the accompaniment of a drug addict – that would be good.

  I make myself a coffee, trying not to notice the Nescafé jar’s clean circumference, absent of all foil, and take it through to the lounge. I turn on the TV to break the silence and sit down on the sofa, aware of myself doing both. This is what a pretentious art-house film about a lonely woman would look like.

  Aimlessly, I flick through the channels. Everything looks unappealing, but anything’s better than thinking. As of today, my brother Drew is the only family I have. I’d be better off with no one at all.

  Eventually I settle for one of those endless news channels, the kind with a ticker moving along the bottom of the frame: ‘Aston Villa signs Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber to be its new chairman’, ‘Bus crash in Eastbourne kills nineteen people, seven of them trombone players’. The headlines are so dull, you’re forced to alter them to keep yourself awake.

  Dull is good, though. Hypnotically tedious. Maybe if I fix my eyes on the screen, I’ll drift into a catatonic state and re-emerge a month or two from now, when hopefully I’ll know what to do again, and how to get on with the rest of my life.

  I wish I liked alcohol more, or cigarettes. Instead, my favourite things are weak instant coffee and cheese and crackers. If only my tastes were different, I could be well on course for an early death by now – not in a depressing suicidal way, but in a way that would be indistinguishable from having too much fun. I’d like to die of Too Much Fun, if only to spite Drew. I don’t want to give the bastard any chance to feel sorry for me.

  On the world’s dullest news channel, there’s a policeman talking about the Billy Dead Mates murders. He looks a bit like that newsreader Matthew Am-something-something. Coincidentally, this man also has an unpronounceable surname that has appeared in a box beneath his face: DS Sam Kombothekra of Culver Valley Police.

  As someone who lives in Rawndesley, I probably ought to be more worried than I am about this serial killer on the loose. He’s killed twice so far in the Culver Valley. Selfishly, I allowed my concern to dissolve when I read an online news report saying that Billy Dead Mates was targeting pairs of best friends.

  That rules me out as one of his victims, I thought, and lost interest immediately. The three best friends I’ve had in my life so far were all chronically disappointing. The first was loyal but so dull she made me want to scream. The second was unreliable – a shape-shifter; less a person in her own right than a series of complex calculations. She told me what I wanted to hear, then walked over to someone else and told them the opposite.

  My third best friend was Sarah Durdy. Sarah was a high-status girl at our school: a Tier One. I was a middling Tier Two: I was clever, wore good clothes and had a healthy and fearless disrespect for authority; on the other hand I was unpredictable and, because I didn’t care about anyone else’s status, I often mixed with the lowest-ranking people.

  Sarah Durdy decided I was worth befriending at the beginning of sixth form because she wanted to go out with the boy whose best mate was my boyfriend at the time. She thought I could help her to achieve this, and I did. We remained friends after we’d dumped them. Sarah decided we needed to look further afield; the boys at our school were immature creeps, she said. We needed real men. Her solution was for us to join a tennis club.

  I’d never been remotely interested in tennis or any sport, but it didn’t occur to me to say no. I looked up to Sarah. She got what she wanted in all things; it never crossed her mind that there might be any other outcome. I admired that. And one of the things she wanted was full ownership of me. It occasionally felt stifling, but mainly I liked it. Sarah acted as if I belonged to her; meanwhile, chez Tribbeck, I continued to feel more like a visiting foreign exchange student who had overstayed her welcome than a member of the family.