You Are Dead

72

Thursday 18 December

Shortly after 8 p.m., feeling dusty and in need of a shower after a day of helping to unpack and move furniture around in Zak’s new restaurant, Freya Northrop drove her Ford Fiesta onto the drive of their house close to Hove Park, switched off the engine and climbed out.

Bobby, a mixed breed terrier, which she had just collected from her friends, Emily and Steve, jumped up excitedly on the passenger seat and put his paws on the dashboard. She opened the boot, took out two Waitrose bags of groceries, and the large carrier containing a bag of dried dog food, mince to be cooked, food bowls, Bobby’s favourite toys, and two boxes of treats for him that Emily had given her. Then she tucked the little round bed that he always slept on under her arm, and picked up the bags.

The house was in darkness, her path to the front door dimly illuminated by the glow from a nearby street lamp. She frowned, certain that they’d deliberately left some lights on when they had gone out this morning.

Zak had stayed behind at the restaurant talking with the engineers who had turned up to install the sound system. As was usual at the moment, he would get a taxi home later that evening.

She wanted to cook him dinner, but she was filled with angst. How could she prepare a professional chef a meal he would approve of? She had the same anxiety every time she cooked for him, especially as he disliked the whole idea of ready-made meals, whether fresh or frozen. On her own, she had lived on supermarket meals for some years, and he had been trying to wean her off them.

Tonight she planned to surprise Zak. She had been studying the recipes in Don’t Sweat the Aubergine, and she had one all worked out in her head. Undercooking the aubergine. Grating garlic and ginger. Adding some soy and Teriyaki sauce. Making sure she did not overcook the scallops or the prawns. She planned to accompany it with a salad of beets, goat’s cheese, peas and tomatoes. She’d bought all the ingredients from Waitrose.

All the way to the front door, Bobby tugged on the lead, sniffing the path excitedly. Before going in she put the bags down on the step and led him onto the small strip of front lawn, where he cocked his leg. She unlocked the door and went in, followed by the dog. She turned on the hall light, lugged in the bags, closed the door, then unclipped Bobby from his lead.

As she gathered up the bags and Bobby’s bed, the memories of the broken kitchen window and the subsequent visit by a detective and the fingerprint team were almost forgotten, Bobby went temporarily bonkers, racing around the hall, his nose buried in the new, thickly tufted carpet.

‘Are your new lodgings to your liking, Lord Bobby?’ she grinned, carrying everything through into the kitchen. Dumping it all on the floor, she took out Bobby’s water bowl, ran the tap until the water was cold, filled it, and set it down.

Bobby trotted over to it and began lapping. She knelt and stroked him. ‘Just going to nip upstairs and have a shower, then I’ll get you your supper! Are you hungry?’ She rummaged in the bag Emily had given her, pulled out a box of marrow-bone roll biscuits, broke it open and placed one down beside him.

He grabbed it in his mouth and raced around the kitchen with it, then jumped on his bed and began crunching on the biscuit.

She went back into the hall and stared for a moment, approvingly, at the colour scheme they had chosen. The walls were a pale, warm cream, the woodwork, including the banister rails, a gleaming, glossy grey. Several photographs and paintings of London scenes, which she had brought down from her previous flat, hung on the walls.

She climbed the stairs up towards the pitch-dark landing, stretching her arm around the corner when she reached the top, wondering why the idiot electrician hadn’t thought to put a switch at the bottom of the stairs. She found the switch and pressed it and the lights came on. All three doors to the bedrooms were closed. As she opened their bedroom door and fumbled for the light switch, she heard a faint sound, a tiny ping.

She stood still for a moment, wondering if she had imagined it; or whether it had come from downstairs, Bobby’s name tag pinging against his metal bowl while he drank?

He stood inside the wardrobe in the master bedroom, masked and gloved, and wearing a body stocking. He pressed hard back against the wall, invisible behind the racks of dresses, being careful not to move and set any more of the hangers pinging.

He was very aroused, almost unable to contain himself with excitement, and worrying that he might ejaculate too soon. So he calmed himself down with deep breathing.

Oh my God, the anticipation! How beautiful was it when your plans came together?

He listened to her footsteps. Saw the light come on through the cracks in the wardrobe door.

Yes, my baby, yes! Yes, you bitch!

Freya entered their all-white bedroom, grinning at her two tatty childhood bears, each with one eye missing, which lay back against the pillows, arms entwined as she had left them this morning. She walked across to the window and drew the curtains — the neighbours had a view directly in — then stripped off her clothes, pulled the ensuite door open and went into the bathroom, switching on the light. She turned on the power shower, checked the temperature adjustment was where she liked it — Zak preferred his about thirty per cent cooler — tested the water with her hand, then stepped in, closing the door behind her.

She squeezed the plastic shampoo bottle and lathered her hair, then she picked up the shower gel and soaped her body.

A moment later, the bathroom light went off.