Destroy Me Read online

  It’s a computer-generated photofit of a woman with a plump, round face and long, brown, wavy hair. Except for the fact that her skin is a little too smooth, and her face is expressionless, making her look slightly plastic, the image is very realistic. She’s got a high forehead, thick, arched eyebrows and there’s even a small brown mole on her left cheek. She’s an ordinary-looking woman – entirely unremarkable. She looks like the best friend in a movie – the one who inexplicably spends all her time worrying about the beautiful heroine and doesn’t appear to have a life of her own. You certainly wouldn’t single her out in a crowd, but nevertheless, her features make up a face that, like every face on the planet, is unique as a fingerprint.

  And Dylan was right. She looks exactly like me.

  Two

  How is that even possible?

  I was nowhere near Cecily Hill on Friday night. It must be a coincidence – a chance resemblance. They say everyone has a doppelganger, don’t they? This must be mine. But a deep feeling of unease crawls into my belly. How plausible is it that someone who lives in the same town as me looks exactly like me?

  I barely have time to process it all before the news anchor peers gravely into my living room and drops another bombshell. This time it’s the victim: a photograph of a woman about my age, grinning at the camera, punching her hands above her head in triumph on top of a mountain. More images flash up. She’s at a party, her arms linked with friends; then she’s on a beach, holding up a cocktail glass. The implication: this is a woman who lived life to the full, making her murder even more despicable – her death even more poignant.

  ‘Charlotte Holbrooke, known to her friends as Charlie, was found dead in her flat on Saturday night. She had been stabbed four times.’ She continues, her eyes misting with tears. ‘She was married just last month.’

  We are shown a photo of Charlie in a wedding dress with her husband, a man called Adam. They’re standing under a sort of arbour, gazing into each other’s eyes. He is handsome, square-jawed, with floppy, blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Then they show another photo of the happy couple on their honeymoon, in front of a wintry scene of Rome, the rooftops speckled with snow. Both are pink-faced and smiling in woolly hats and scarves. They look happy and in love.

  ‘If you were in the Cecily Hill area on Friday night or in the early hours of Saturday morning and saw anything suspicious, please get in touch,’ the newsreader implores as a phone number rolls across the bottom of the screen below her. ‘And if you saw this woman –’ that impossible picture fills the screen again – ‘or know who she might be, please contact us.’

  My hand is shaking as I switch off the TV.

  I don’t drink much as a rule. And I certainly never drink alone. But right now, it seems like the appropriate response. The only response to such an outrageous shock. I stumble into the kitchen and pour myself a vodka – a present from Gaby last summer, from her visit to Russia – and I gulp it down. The liquid burns my throat and I wince, but I carry on until the glass is drained. This can’t be a coincidence.

  Because I know her. I know the victim. Charlotte Holbrooke. Charlie. She used to be Charlotte Kent before she married, but I would recognise her anywhere.

  It must have been . . . what? At least seventeen years since I last saw her. But she hasn’t changed. She still has that same thick head of amber-coloured hair, the same heart-shaped face and bright hazel eyes. Still had, I remind myself. She has changed now, of course. She’s dead. Charlie is dead. You can’t change much more than that.

  I pour myself another vodka, this time tempering it with orange juice. I try to remember the last time I saw Charlie. It must have been just before we left for uni. We were sitting in a pub garden at a damp wooden table. I don’t remember much of what we said or why we were there. All I remember is Charlie, pale and unusually serious, saying, ‘This is it, Cat. We’re off to start new lives. Let’s keep in touch.’

  I think we both knew, even then, that her words were hollow – that there was no way we would stay in contact; that our friendship was ruined for ever.

  The acrid smell of burning wafts into my nostrils.

  Shit.

  I rush back into the living room. Black smoke is billowing from the iron.

  Shit.

  I lift it up and uncover a large black scorch mark imprinted on clean white cotton. It’s burned a hole right through to the ironing board.

  Shit shit shit. I only bought that shirt today. I’ll have to throw it away now.

  I switch off the iron, toss the shirt into the bin outside and slump down on the sofa, clinging to the armrest, digging my nails into the velvet cover. The room seems to be swaying, lurching from side to side. Fear grips my throat so that I can barely breathe, blackness curling at the edge of my mind.

  This can’t be happening. Charlie has been murdered. My old school friend Charlie has been murdered and the police are looking for someone who looks exactly like me.

  Someone must have given the police this description. After all, that’s how they make photofits, by adjusting the image until the witness is satisfied that it looks like the person they saw. But who? And why? Could it be a deliberate attempt to incriminate me? Why would anyone want to do that? I am an ordinary thirty-five-year-old woman, who lives her life trying to be kind and trying not to cause offence. I don’t have any enemies.

  I try to hang on to facts that make sense. What was I doing on Friday evening? But right now, panic floods through me, banishing rational thought. I can’t remember. What was I doing? I dropped off Dylan at Theo’s flat and then what? I wasn’t there, I try to reassure myself. I didn’t do it. I can’t be charged with something I didn’t do.

  Then it comes back to me. Of course, how could I forget? After Weight Watchers, we went for a drink at the Black Bear in Tetbury, Gaby and me. And we met that guy there – Luke. He drove me home and he spent the night. The first time I’ve had sex with someone other than Theo for at least eight years.

  I go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, beginning to feel a little calmer. If the worst comes to the worst, I have a solid alibi at least. I wasn’t alone for even a minute on Friday night. I’m sipping the soothing hot liquid when the phone rings loud in my little house, making my heart strike against my chest. The police have made the link already, I think, in a blind panic. They’re phoning to ask me to come to the station.

  But I needn’t have worried. It’s not the police. It’s Theo.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what I just saw on the news,’ he says cheerfully.

  ‘I saw it,’ I say tersely. My heart rate slowing slightly.

  ‘There’s been a murder and the photofit . . .’

  ‘I saw it.’

  ‘You must have a twin,’ he chuckles. ‘An evil twin.’

  This is just an amusing diversion for him. It’s annoying, but also, in a weird way, reassuring. If he thinks it’s funny, maybe I’m taking it too much to heart. Of course, no one could take this seriously. I’m a law-abiding citizen, a mother of a young child. I’ve never been in trouble with the police. I’ve never even had so much as a speeding ticket.

  There’s a silence on the other end of the phone.

  ‘What do you want, Theo?’ I ask, feeling suddenly weary.

  ‘Can I speak to Dylan?’ he asks. I picture Theo on the other end of the phone squashing his lower lip together between his thumb and his forefinger, the way he does when he’s thinking. I know his every gesture and, for a second, I feel a longing so intense it takes my breath away. I want him here with me right now. I need him to laugh and shrug and make everything seem okay.

  ‘He’s asleep already,’ I say coldly. ‘He’s starting school tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. I forgot. Oh well, wish him luck from me. Shall I pick him up on Friday?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll let his teacher know.’ I don’t relish the idea of expla
ining our domestic situation to the teacher, but I suppose it has to be done.

  ‘Are you okay, Cat?’ He sounds almost like he really cares.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Bye, Theo, see you soon.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  I hang up, trying not to picture Theo’s face on the pillow next to mine, his warm breath on my cheek – the way he would always say ‘goodnight’ and kiss me, before rolling over to his side of the bed. At least I can spread out now, I think. I can sleep on whichever side I like. When Dylan isn’t in bed with me, I sleep diagonally across the bed just for the hell of it. I fold up the ironing board, telling myself that space in a bed is a good substitute for a living, breathing man.

  Then I go into my bedroom and fire up the computer. Logging on to Facebook, I find Charlie’s profile.

  Messages have gone up on her page already. Charlotte Holbrooke. We are heartbroken. Heaven has another angel. A beautiful soul. You were a friend I was proud to know. Have a margarita for me in heaven.

  Tears prick at the back of my eyes. It’s been a long time since I saw Charlie. But she was important to me at a time in my life when feelings were raw and friendships more intense. And I suppose I loved her. Reckless, fun, crazy Charlie. I picture her curled up in my parents’ armchair, smoking a spliff or balancing precariously on the school wall, laughing as Mr Baker shouted at her to get down.

  But I am ambushed by another memory. Driving home from a party. Charlie leaning out of the car window like a dog, her hair flying behind her. Me shouting over the roar of the engine. ‘Get in, Charlie. You’re going to kill yourself!’ And her just leaning further out, yelling, ‘Live a little, Cat. You know what they say . . .’

  I shut down the computer.

  Charlie always lived dangerously. She liked to take risks and push things to their limit. But I could never have predicted that her life would have ended like this – so violently; so horribly. What happened to you, Charlie? I wonder as I head to bed. Did you get yourself involved in something you shouldn’t have?

  Three

  A pale silver sun is nudging through the morning cloud as we walk to Dylan’s new school. He hops along beside me, down the river path and past the horses swishing their tails in the field. Despite the rain yesterday, the water level in the river is low, and I can see all the rubbish that has accumulated at the bottom. A family of ducks is waddling carefully over the Coke cans and weeds, no doubt wondering where all the water has gone.

  Green Park Primary School is an old stone building at the far end of town. It’s changed a lot since I went there. In our day, the fence was on the road. Now it’s all high walls and security. In the playground, parents are milling around. A few of them are taking photos of their children – girls in checked green and white dresses with buttoned-up cardigans and boys in grey shorts and green jumpers posing on the steps of the school. I wish I’d remembered to bring my phone to record Dylan’s first day. But I was too preoccupied with other things this morning, worrying about that news report last night. Will any of the other parents recognise me? I’ve scraped my hair back and worn a baseball cap and sunglasses in an attempt to disguise myself. But judging by all the strange glances I’m getting it hasn’t worked. I try to ignore the huddle of mothers whispering by the pagoda, and make my way straight to the classroom, head down, gripping Dylan’s hand tightly.

  ‘Ouch, Mummy, you’re hurting,’ he says as I climb the steps to Mrs Bailey’s classroom.

  ‘Sorry, baby,’ I say, letting go of his hand.

  ‘I’m not a baby. I’m a big boy.’

  ‘Yes, of course you are.’ I force a smile. Please God let them not say anything to their children about me. They wouldn’t, would they? I try not to imagine Dylan surrounded by a group of kids chanting, ‘Your mummy’s a murderer’.

  ‘Dylan, welcome!’ exclaims Mrs Bailey with a saccharine smile. That’s right. I’d forgotten he came here with Theo for the induction, so she already knows him. Dylan hesitates, his fingers digging into my hand.

  Mrs Bailey stoops over so she’s at his eye level. Her eyes glitter blue in a soft, faded face, her grey hair coils artfully over her neck. She has a wispy baby voice which seems incongruous in a woman of her age.

  ‘Do you think you can you find your name on the board?’ she whispers to him, as if they’re sharing a secret, and Dylan smiles shyly, nods and heads to the corkboard where laminated name cards shaped like butterflies are Velcroed.

  ‘That’s right, well done!’ she exclaims as he pulls one off. Then she straightens up, looks at me for the first time and does a double take.

  ‘Have we met before?’ she asks, frowning.

  ‘No, my husband came to the induction. My ex-husband,’ I correct myself.

  ‘Oh, okay,’ her eyes narrow thoughtfully. ‘I could have sworn . . .’

  Her voice trails off and she fiddles with the glasses on a chain around her neck. Then she turns to another parent, a hassled-looking father in jogging gear, and beams at him. How long will it take her to connect my face to the photofit she most likely saw last night? I wonder. More parents and kids are arriving. A little girl is screaming, trying to drag her mother away. I feel like screaming too. I just want to get out of here. The walls seem to be closing in and I feel exposed, as though everyone’s staring at me, whispering about me. At least Dylan seems fine. He’s trotting off hand in hand with the teaching assistant without so much as a backward glance.

  ‘See you later, Dyl,’ I call, but he doesn’t hear me, and I duck out of the classroom while he’s distracted.

  I scurry out of the playground, head down, hoping no one else will recognise me. I’m staring at the concrete, trying to avoid eye contact as I turn out of the school gate and I don’t notice the woman right in front of me, rushing in the other direction, clutching the hand of a little boy. We collide and her handbag drops, the contents spilling out.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ I exclaim, helping her to scoop up the purse and lipstick and various scraps of paper and receipts.

  ‘No, no, it’s my fault,’ the woman says breathlessly. ‘We shouldn’t have been running. We’re late. You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had!’ She stands up and smiles at me benignly. She’s tall and pretty, with bright red lipstick, sleek black hair and friendly grey eyes. I steel myself for a change in her expression, a flicker of recognition or for her features to harden into suspicion. But they don’t. She clearly hasn’t seen the news, I think, breathing with relief.

  ‘We’re looking for Butterflies classroom,’ she says. ‘Weird name for a class, isn’t it?’

  I nod and grin. ‘It’s over there,’ I tell her, pointing to the new one-storey block. ‘My son is in Butterflies too.’

  ‘Is he really?’ She seems to take more of an interest in this fact than it merits. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Er, Dylan. Dylan Bayntun.’

  ‘Mummee,’ the little boy tugs at her arm impatiently.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to go,’ she laughs as she’s dragged away. ‘But I’m sure we’ll get to know each other later. I’m Georgia, by the way.’

  Georgia seems nice, I think, as I walk back through the centre of town. It would be useful to make friends with some of the mothers at Dylan’s school. It will help him make friends too . . . but how likely is it that Georgia will want to socialise with me after she sees that photofit?

  Halfway home, on impulse, I stop outside Curl Up and Dye and look at the list of prices pinned on the door. It’s always struck me as an amusingly bad name for a hairdresser. I mean it’s not exactly encouraging, is it? Is that how you will feel after your haircut, like you want to curl up and die? But I can’t feel much more like curling up and dying than I currently do. And it doesn’t matter if my hair is cut well. I just want to look as different as possible from the way I look now.

  The salon smells of ammonia and the radio is on, playing a jangli
ng tune. A skinny assistant with jagged blonde hair and a nose ring sashays up to a sort of podium with an appointments book on it and gives me a chilly smile.

  ‘Yes?’ she says.

  ‘I’d like my hair cut and dyed, please.’

  She takes up a pen and sucks the end. ‘When would you like to come?’

  ‘Er, now, if possible.’

  She looks around the empty salon. ‘Um well . . . okay. Take a seat,’ she says reluctantly and bustles away into a back room. So I sit and wait, flicking through a magazine, reading a story about a woman who had an affair with her daughter’s husband. I don’t get to the end of the story to learn what the daughter did when she found out, because the assistant bustles back with a stylist who introduces herself as Cheryl and ushers me to a chair in front of the mirror.

  I stare at my reflection as she combs through the tangles and examines my split ends dubiously.

  ‘So, what do you want done?’ she asks.

  I take a deep breath. ‘I want it cut short, in a bob. About your length and blonde.’

  Cheryl purses her lips. ‘Are you sure? That’s quite a drastic change.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ The more dramatic the better, I think. All I can see when I look at myself is that appalling photofit.

  Cheryl shrugs and fetches me a colour chart. ‘What do you like?’ she asks.

  I stab my finger at a shade on the lighter end of the spectrum.

  ‘Beeline Honey?’ Cheryl frowns. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like something a little darker, like Hot Toffee or Havana Brown?’

  ‘No, I want Beeline Honey or maybe Medium Champagne,’ I say firmly. ‘I need a change. I’m getting a divorce.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She nods and smiles – a warm smile this time, and her face is transformed. ‘You want a revenge haircut.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’ The mention of my divorce has softened her and I think she feels she can relate to me now because she spends the next half an hour or so, while my hair is cooking, telling me all about her ex-boyfriend, Sam, who cheated on her.