Destroy Me Page 17

  ‘Delilah, baby, where are you? Are you sick?’ I say, peering in the gap between the fence and the shed.

  And there she is.

  For a few disorienting seconds, I think that she must be asleep. She’s lying on her side, her legs outstretched, one ear splayed out over the ground, as if she’s flying, the other flopping over her eye.

  ‘Delilah, wake up.’ I prod her gently.

  Then I notice the quality of her stillness – the way she is not moving at all.

  She’s not breathing.

  Twenty-seven

  ‘Poison,’ the vet pronounces grimly.

  It’s ten o’clock in the morning. At Pet Stop Veterinarian Clinic. As soon as I woke up this morning, I dragged Delilah out from behind the shed, wrapped her in a blanket and laid her on the back seat of the car. Then I drove her straight here. Now she’s laid out unceremoniously on the cold, metal examination table, her tongue lolling, eyes glassy, her ear flopping over the edge of the table.

  ‘We’d have to do a post-mortem to discover exactly what the poison was,’ he adds. ‘Did you leave any medications lying around? A surprising number of medications that are harmless to humans can be fatal to dogs.’

  I think about the Xanax I took yesterday. But I left the packet on the sink, didn’t I? There’s no way Delilah could have got to them and even if she had, how would she have got into the packet?

  ‘Yes, I know, but I don’t think I left anything where she could reach it.’ I voice a fear that’s been preying on my mind ever since I found her. ‘Do you think she could have been deliberately poisoned?’

  He gives me an odd look. ‘It’s possible, but unlikely. More likely she ate something that someone had put down for another purpose. Rat poison, for example. People really should be more careful.’

  I nod. I am thinking about the open patio door. The more I think about it, the more I’m sure I didn’t leave it open. It’s possible I might not have locked it, but I’m certain I wouldn’t have left it wide open like that. A cold unease clutches me. What if the vet is wrong and someone broke into our house and poisoned Delilah?

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Bayntun?’ The vet’s voice comes from far away.

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. What did you say?’

  ‘It’s quite all right. It can be very traumatic, the death of a beloved pet. I was just asking if you want me to do a post-mortem?’

  ‘No.’ I don’t want to risk getting the police involved. They might ask all sorts of awkward questions.

  ‘Okay, then. So, what do you want to do with her body?’ he asks gently.

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t really thought about that.’

  ‘Would you like her to be cremated, for example?’

  ‘Er, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Good. If you want, we can keep her here until someone from the pet crematorium can pick her up.’

  ‘That would be good. Thank you.’

  I feel bad leaving Delilah as if she’s a piece of luggage to be stored, but it’s one less thing to worry about and I’m not sure where I would put her if I took her home. So I kiss her on her soft, velvety head for the last time, say goodbye and pay the vet’s receptionist a deposit.

  It’s only as I walk down the steps of the vet surgery that tears come. Big, fat tears rolling down my cheeks. They are tears of anger as well as grief. She was a good, sweet dog. What kind of person would do this to such a gentle, innocent creature? And how the hell am I going to break the news to Dylan?

  I get home to an empty house and make myself a cup of tea. I start a packet of chocolate biscuits, but they taste like dust in my mouth and I throw the remainder of the packet in the bin. Then I wash up the breakfast things and sweep the floor. The rest of the day stretches out in front of me, empty and bleak.

  I sit down in front of my laptop and try to write a few words of the Embers sequel, but nothing comes. Delilah is usually nearby, curled up in her basket next to me, and I miss her quiet, unobtrusive presence more than I would have expected. I keep thinking of Dylan too. He loves Delilah so much. He has grown up with her watching over him. She used to guard him from other dogs, growling when they came near his pram, and when he got older he would stumble after her on his little legs trying to grab her tail. She was always so patient. She never got angry or snapped at him. How am I going to tell him? I don’t like the idea of lying to him, but perhaps it’s kinder to make something up – the old cliché of the dog going to live on a farm. He’s only five, after all. Isn’t he too young to deal with the reality of life and death?

  I’m washing out her feeding bowl and wondering what to do with it when Theo rings. He sounds chipper. It’s a stark contrast to my mood. ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ he says.

  ‘Not too good.’ I’m trying not to cry.

  ‘Oh, what’s wrong? Is it the press? Are they bothering you again?’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I’ll explain when I see you.’

  ‘Okay.’ Theo pauses. ‘Well, I’m just ringing to say that you don’t need to pick up Dylan from school. He felt ill this morning, so I didn’t take him in.’

  ‘He’s ill?’ Panic grips me. Everything is slipping out of my control. If they can get to Delilah, why not Dylan? ‘Is he throwing up?’ I ask, seized by a sudden panic that he’s been poisoned too.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s fine. He’s just got a touch of flu, that’s all,’ Theo reassures me.

  ‘I want to see him. Can I come round?’

  ‘Sure, of course you can.’

  Twenty-eight

  A few minutes later, I’m in Theo’s flat trying to get Dylan to drink a glass of water. His cheeks are flushed and his forehead is hot, but to my relief, he seems okay and is sitting up in bed, playing games on his tablet.

  ‘No more iPad,’ I say firmly, taking it away. ‘You should try to get to sleep.’

  ‘All right,’ he says, laying his head back down on the pillow, grabbing my hand tightly. ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘I’ll just be in the living room, sweetheart. Don’t worry.’ I gently release myself from his grip. ‘I just need to go and talk to Daddy for a bit.’

  ‘You see? I told you he was okay,’ says Theo, as I enter the room.

  Tears have welled up in my eyes.

  ‘Hey, it’s all right. What’s wrong?’

  I sit on the sofa and stare blankly at Harper’s painting hanging above the TV. ‘I just don’t know how to tell him. It’s going to break his heart.’

  ‘Tell him what?’

  ‘It’s Delilah.’ I rub my eyes and swallow back more tears. ‘She’s dead.’

  Theo’s jaw drops. ‘What? Delilah? But . . . I don’t understand. She was fine only the other day.’

  ‘She was poisoned.’

  Theo sits down opposite me clutching a cushion. His face pinches. ‘Poisoned? How?’

  ‘The vet said he thought she might have eaten rat poison.’ I shake my head. ‘But it makes no sense. She didn’t leave the house yesterday. Where would she have found rat poison?’

  Theo shakes his head disbelievingly. He looks stricken. Delilah was his dog too. He loved her. We picked her together from the dog shelter shortly after we first married, as a kind of trial run for having a kid. We chose her because, unlike the other dogs, who were leaping up at the bars, wagging their tails wildly, she was cowering at the back of the cage. It took months of TLC to transform her into the happy, trusting dog she became.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I think someone poisoned her. On purpose.’

  Theo stares at me. ‘Really? But who would want to hurt Delilah?’ He breaks off, chewing his lip thoughtfully. ‘Do you think it was Eileen? She was always complaining about the barking.’

  I shake my head. ‘Not Eileen. Someone else.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I think it was a kind of warning to me.’

  Theo frowns. He looks confused. ‘A
warning? What do you mean by that?’

  I slump in my chair, fighting back tears. I am so tired of bearing this by myself. I need to talk to someone, and despite everything, Theo is still my closest friend and the person I trust the most in the world. I take a deep breath. ‘It’s not just Delilah,’ I say. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you about Charlotte Holbrooke, the murder at Cecily House . . .’

  He looks alarmed. I can see the cogs whirring in his brain. God knows what’s going through his head. Maybe he expects me to confess to Charlie’s murder.

  ‘When I said I didn’t know Charlotte Holbrooke, I was lying,’ I say. ‘She was an old school friend, but I hadn’t seen her for years, not since we were eighteen.’

  ‘I see,’ Theo says slowly. ‘But I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

  I plough on. The words spew out. I want to tell him everything before I change my mind. ‘The summer before we left for university, I went to an end-of-term party with Charlie. I drove because I was the only one who had a licence at the time. At the party we drank a lot. We were planning to sleep over but, well for complicated reasons, we ended up driving home in the early hours of the morning and we had an accident. A girl was killed.’

  There’s an appalled silence. Theo is staring at me open-mouthed. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see the shock and disillusionment on his face.

  ‘There was nothing we could do. We were on a lonely country road and she just appeared from nowhere – this little girl. I braked, but it was too late.’

  As I’m speaking, I fight a wave of nausea so intense it feels as if I might throw up all my internal organs. I grip the chair and look down at the carpet, focusing on a small speck of dust, willing myself not to be sick.

  When the nausea has passed, I raise my head and I’m relieved to see that Theo’s not looking at me. He’s staring at his hands instead, lacing and unlacing his fingers, a dark, brooding expression on his face.

  ‘What happened then? Did you call an ambulance?’ he asks quietly.

  I stand up and move to the window, stare out at the road. ‘No, what would have been the point? She was already dead.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  I shake my head. ‘Charlie persuaded me not to. I’d been drinking. I’d have been charged with manslaughter. I’d have gone to prison. My life would’ve been ruined.’ I turn and look at him pleadingly, begging him silently to understand. ‘We made the decision to drive on and pretend it had never happened.’

  ‘Oh my God, Cat.’ Theo shakes his head in disbelief. ‘And you never told anyone about this?’

  ‘I know what we did was wrong, but we were so young, barely more than kids ourselves.’

  There’s a long silence. Eventually, he looks at me. His expression is hard to read. ‘Jesus, Cat. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Do you hate me?’ My voice is small, pathetic. I hate myself, I realise.

  ‘No, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, but this is serious stuff. It’s a hit and run. My God.’ He rubs his hand through his hair so it’s sticking up on end. ‘You should have told someone.’

  I see myself through his eyes, diminished in his estimation. I know he thought of me as a truthful person. It was a joke between us how bad I was at lying. It was one of the things he said he loved about me. My honesty.

  ‘It wouldn’t have done the little girl any good. Believe me, if I thought I could do something to make it right, I would.’

  He stands up, paces the room, cracking his knuckles. It’s what he does when he’s stressed, a habit that used to drive me nuts.

  ‘But I still don’t see,’ he says slowly. ‘What has all this got to do with your friend’s murder?’

  ‘Don’t you see? It’s the only thing that explains every­thing – the murder, the photofit, the pictures.’

  ‘Pictures?’

  I explain about the photos in Dylan’s book bag and the messages sent by George Wilkinson. ‘I think he’s a fake,’ I say. ‘That he’s really someone related to the little girl who died. Her brother or her sister, maybe as a message or a warning.’

  Theo looks doubtful. I know him well enough to read his thoughts. Right now, he’s worried I’m losing my marbles. Women – scratch the surface and they’re all emotionally unstable. I know that’s what he thinks. Not because he’s ever actually said that in so many words, but because of small throwaway comments he’s made over the years.

  ‘But how would they know it was you who killed her? No one knew, right?’

  ‘I don’t know how. I think Charlie must have told someone. Anyway, however they found out, they know and—’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Theo says. ‘You think this person murdered Charlie and then tried to frame you for her murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know how nuts that sounds, Cat? Are you sure that you’re not reading too much into all this? I mean maybe it’s because you feel so guilty about what happened—’

  ‘Oh, spare me the amateur psychology.’ I fish the last photo – the snapshot of the road – out of my handbag and thrust it under his nose. ‘Look. It’s just a nondescript stretch of road. There’s nothing there. No reason why anybody would send it – apart from the fact it’s where she died.’

  Theo examines the picture carefully. He’s thinking hard. ‘I don’t know,’ he sighs at last. ‘Perhaps you should take it to the police.’

  ‘I can’t. Don’t you see? I would have to explain about the accident and then I’d go to jail.’ I’m suddenly frightened, doubtful of my trust in him. ‘Promise you won’t tell anyone either. Just imagine what it would do to Dylan.’

  There’s a pause. Theo is a person who weighs every decision logically. I hold my breath. His loyalty is by no means a foregone conclusion. But Dylan is my trump card. Like me, Dylan is everything to him and I know he wants what’s best for him.

  ‘I won’t go to the police,’ he says at last. ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

  I’ve never known Theo make false promises, apart from the obvious breaking of our marriage vows, but I’m still not reassured. ‘You can’t tell anyone. Not even Harper. Especially not Harper.’

  He sighs. ‘There’s not much chance of that. I won’t be seeing her any more. We’ve separated.’

  I stare at him. ‘But it’s just a temporary separation, right?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, it’s official this time. She’s moved out. She’s taken all her stuff.’

  I absorb this, trying to work out how I feel about it.

  ‘But you could get back together.’

  ‘Nope. Not possible,’ he says firmly.

  ‘Why not?’

  He looks at me directly with eloquent brown eyes. ‘Because I’m still in love with someone else. Always have been. I can’t help it.’

  How many times have I fantasised about him saying exactly those words? Sometimes in my fantasies, after he’s confessed his undying love, we fall into each other’s arms and walk off into the sunset. Other times, I say something cutting and leave him to mull over his mistakes – to rue the day he treated me so badly. Right now, though, confronted with the reality, I don’t do either of those things. I am too tired and overwhelmed. Instead, I decide to completely ignore it and pretend I don’t understand what he means.

  ‘What do you think I should do about Delilah?’ I ask.

  He sighs. ‘I really don’t know. Short of going to the police I don’t know what you can do. I’d put money on Delilah’s death being an accident. And as for the photos, if you’re right and they were sent by someone related to this girl who died, maybe they’ve made their point. Maybe they’ll leave you alone from now on.’

  Theo’s wrong, I think as I drive home with Dylan in the back seat. I know this in my bones. But then Theo doesn’t really believe me about the photos. He thin
ks it’s in my imagination. Dylan falls asleep in the car and he’s a dead weight as I carry him in through the door and up the stairs. Still, I do feel better for talking to Theo – and maybe he’s right about Delilah (she was always eating crap). Even so, I double-check I’ve locked every door and window and I put Dylan to sleep in my bed where I can keep an eye on him. I’m not taking any chances, not where Dylan is concerned.

  Twenty-nine

  It rains solidly for days, a steady, dismal rain, and the temperature drops dramatically, heralding the arrival of autumn. Even though Dylan is better, I keep him off school for a couple more days and we barely leave the house. I put on the heating and we sit by the radiator, eating biscuits, doing jigsaw puzzles and watching old black and white clips of Laurel and Hardy on YouTube.

  In the end I decide to tell Dylan the truth about Delilah, not the poison part, but the fact that she’s dead, and he takes it much better than I expected. He cries a little, but he seems to cheer up when I give him a packet of cheese and onion crisps and take him to the ballpark to play.

  ‘But won’t she be lonely without us?’ he asks, tucking into a burger in the café next door.

  ‘She has lots of doggie friends in dog heaven,’ I tell him.

  ‘What’s dog heaven?’ he asks, round-eyed.

  ‘There are bones and dog biscuits everywhere and lots of cats to chase, I expect.’

  ‘And everything smells like poo,’ he chuckles, wiping away tears and snot.

  ‘Oh yuck, trust you to think of that,’ I laugh.

  For a few days it feels as if Dylan and I are living in a safe, little bubble and I barely think about Charlie or the photofit. Fake it ’til you make it. That’s what they say, isn’t it? Well, I spend so much time pretending to Dylan that everything is okay that I start to believe it too. I almost convince myself that Delilah’s death was just a sad accident and that Charlie’s killer has forgotten about me.

  But once Dylan is back at school and I’m alone in the house again, reality comes crashing back. Whatever I’ve tried to tell myself, I know that it’s not realistic to hope that this will just blow over, that this person tormenting me is going to just give up and go away. I need to know who is doing this and to find that out I need to identify Daisy’s brother and sister, because even if one of them didn’t kill Charlie, they most likely know who did. Doug Foster told me that they live nearby, so I’m guessing it’s quite possible they still live in Cirencester. With that in mind, on the first morning Dylan is back in school, I scour the online BT phone directory for people with the surname Foster. There are only two in the area and I phone them both pretending to be conducting a survey, but neither of them is a likely candidate to be Daisy’s sibling. One is a lonely old woman in her eighties who wants to tell me at length about her family who have all emigrated to Australia and the other are a couple in their forties with three teenage children and no time to talk. They are the wrong age and have never heard of Daisy or Doug Foster.