A Twist of the Knife

  He went in and found himself in a small front office, with a plump lady in her mid-sixties sitting behind a tiny desk, eating a Pot Noodle. The walls were decorated with large colour photographs of smiling, beautiful young women, and there was a drinks dispenser. He gave the receptionist his name.

  She looked at her computer screen, frowning. ‘Mr Marples, did you say?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was irritated by her manner.

  ‘Did you bring ID with you? Your passport and driving licence?’

  He handed both to her and she looked at her screen again, frowning further. He felt his heart sinking, and started to wonder if he had been conned. Then, suddenly, she smiled. ‘Ah, yes! Here we are! Imogen?’

  ‘Imogen.’

  She handed him a receipt to sign, then she picked up her phone and pressed a button. ‘Mr Clive Marples to collect Imogen,’ she said to someone. Then she pointed to a chair. ‘Do take a seat,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to a tea or coffee. She’ll be down in a few minutes.’

  He made himself a coffee, sat on the hard plastic seat and waited. And waited. Then he needed to pee. The receptionist pointed at a door and gave him directions. A few minutes later he returned to the reception area and stopped in his tracks.

  An apparition awaited him that totally took his breath away. A tall, leggy blonde in a short, clingy dress that showed off every contour of her voluptuous body and stopped several inches short of her knees. She had, quite simply, the sexiest legs he had ever seen in his life. And the most beautiful smile. And two elegant suitcases on the floor beside her.

  ‘Clive!’ she said. ‘I’ve been dreaming about you for so long!’ She threw her arms around him and gave him a long, deep, kiss that made him instantly, incredibly horny.

  He carried her bags out to the car and put them in the boot. A couple of minutes later they were heading out of the industrial estate.

  ‘Turn left here, and then in one and a half miles make a right,’ she told him.

  ‘You sound like my satnav,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes? Well, I’ll bet your satnav lady doesn’t do this,’ she replied, fumbling expertly with his belt and then his zip. By the time they were four miles down the M40 he’d had his first orgasm.

  The rest of their journey home passed as if it was a dream. They chatted easily. She knew everything about him, as if they had been together for years, as if they were soul mates.

  For the first two heady days after they arrived back at his house, they made love for most of the weekend, only interrupted by Imogen cooking him meals and rushing to the shops to get him the Saturday, then Sunday newspapers. At ten o’clock on Sunday night, falling into a blissful, sexually sated sleep, Clive Marples considered himself the luckiest man on the planet. He truly had his dream wife.

  Imogen rapidly became the envy of all Clive’s buddies on The Foresters estate, and at the Dyke Golf Club. A few Sundays after Imogen had come into his life, having had one too many beers at the 19th hole, Clive announced to his regular golf buddies, ‘Know what they say? The perfect wife should be a chef in the kitchen, a lady in the living room and a whore in the bedroom? Well, my Imogen is all of that and more!’

  Of course, they all wanted to know where he and Imogen had met. And Clive had the perfect answer ready. ‘Online,’ he said. ‘On a dating agency website.’

  All his pals agreed he was one lucky bastard.

  The following Friday night, Imogen proved to be the perfect hostess when Clive entertained his new boss and his wife to dinner. The five-course meal she prepared was, their two guests declared, some of the most delicious food they had ever put in their mouths. And after they had gone home, Imogen, just as she did every night, treated Clive to the most delicious love-making he had ever experienced. Never had he felt so alive, so fulfilled, so youthful!

  His friends at the Dyke Golf Club told him he looked ten, maybe even fifteen years younger. It had to be down to the new lady in his life. What was his secret? How the hell had a middle-aged git like him pulled such a lovely woman? Several of them – all married men – surreptitiously approached him, asking for the number of the dating agency. Cheekily playing the moral ticket, he told them he could not possibly give such temptation to married friends.

  And his life with Imogen carried on being sweeter than he could ever have imagined. Every evening, it seemed to him, Imogen reinvented sexual pleasure. She took him to new heights, doing new things to his body that he could never, ever have dreamed of. He just loved everything they did together, in bed and out of it. He even found himself enjoying things he had once considered chores, like accompanying her food shopping, and even clothes shopping. And all the time they talked and talked. She was a voracious reader of newspapers and books, absorbing everything, and she had intelligent views on every topic they discussed.

  Then one Saturday morning, shopping in the Marks & Spencer superstore at Brighton’s Holmbush Centre, his arm around Imogen as they headed towards the food hall to select items for their dinner, Clive stopped in his tracks. There, walking down the aisle towards him, was Shirley.

  Clive instantly turned, sweeping Imogen around, and rapidly led her away, convinced he had seen a ghost. He dragged her out of the store and into the car, wondering, had he imagined it?

  ‘What’s the matter, my darling?’ Imogen asked sweetly.

  ‘I’d rather go to Tesco,’ he said.

  ‘Tesco’s good,’ she replied.

  That was one of the many things he loved about her. She never questioned his decisions. But, boy, was he shaken. That couldn’t have been Shirley. Impossible! It was his imagination playing tricks. His guilty conscience?

  Had to be.

  All the same, when he tried to make love to Imogen that night, he couldn’t perform, despite everything she tried. With every caress, every touch of her lips, he saw Shirley walking down the food hall aisle towards him.

  Then on Monday morning, driving up Brighton’s Queen’s Road to the station to catch his regular commuter train to London, Clive suddenly saw Shirley walking along the street, heading to the station herself.

  Impossible!

  As he turned his head he failed to notice that all the cars in front of him had stopped for a red light. Too late, he jammed on the brakes and slammed into the rear of a large, bronze Jaguar. As he climbed out, a furious-looking short, fat man clambered out of the Jaguar. To his amazement he recognized Harry Tucker, their plump, odious table companion from the cruise last year.

  ‘My God!’ he said. ‘Harry! Harry Tucker! Remember me? Clive Marples from the cruise last year – the Gloriana? I’m so sorry!’

  Not entirely surprisingly, considering the circumstances, Harry did not seem at all pleased to see him, and appeared very flustered and distracted. They exchanged few words. Harry seemed in a hurry to swap insurance details, ignoring all Clive’s questions about how he was and what had brought him down to Brighton. Then he drove off after muttering vague promises about calling him and meeting up for a drink sometime.

  On the train, Clive sat, deep in thought, mystified by the strange encounter. Had he imagined Shirley? Had he imagined Harry? Had he seen a ghost? Could Shirley possibly still be alive? Could Harry Tucker be having an affair with her?

  But how the hell could she still be alive? It was impossible. The thought was absurd! But Clive could not stop thinking about the two extraordinary coincidences. He fretted about it all day. That evening, arriving back at the station, he hurried across the car park to his Lexus and went straight to the front of it. There indeed was a dent, and a broken headlight.

  A week later, seated at a table at a restaurant in Brighton with Imogen, he saw, across the room, Harry and Shirley being shown in by the maître d’ and seated at a table only a short distance away.

  This time there was no mistaking. It was Harry and Shirley. Holding hands. Chinking Champagne glasses. Clearly deeply into each other.

  Despite his efforts to keep his head low, he realized that Harry, who was facing his way,
had recognized him. But Shirley had not.

  A few minutes later, Harry got up and headed towards the toilets, giving him a nod on the way. Clive joined him at the urinal. Before he could utter a word to Harry, who seemed embarrassed as hell, Harry said, ‘Clive I know this must sound pretty weird to you. But before Doreen and I went on that cruise I discovered this amazing site on the internet called DreamWife.com. You pay quite a big sum and they issue you with a watch that can scan memories and faces and create your dream woman, out of anyone you meet and fancy.’

  ‘Really?’ Clive said, feigning surprise.

  ‘It’s amazing! Well, here’s the thing – sorry I was short with you the other day over that prang.’

  ‘You had every reason to be.’

  ‘Didn’t want to get drawn into a conversation about why I was down in Brighton. Shirley had a hankering to visit. You see, I took an incredible fancy to your Shirley on that cruise.’ Then he held up his watch. The one identical to the one Clive had worn on the cruise. ‘A scanner, just like yours, right?’

  Clive said nothing.

  ‘I’ve had it a while. I used it on the cruise to download stuff from your Shirley’s brain and to take pictures of her. The only thing was I forgot to switch it off when the download was complete! When I returned home, I sent it all to DreamWife and requested a replica of her. Then I dumped Doreen. I only took delivery of Shirley a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t think you’d mind, too much, seeing how badly you and she were getting on. And then with her being dead and all that?’ He grinned, lasciviously. ‘Dunno why you weren’t getting on, she’s a cracker. My God, she’s a goer!’

  ‘I’m glad you’re finding that, Harry,’ he said.

  ‘She’s wild, mate! Know what I mean? Never known a lady like it in the sack! You don’t mind?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Clive was feeling a terrible stab of panic. How much did Shirley remember? What the hell was she going to be telling this fat dickhead?

  Then Harry Tucker put an avuncular arm around him. ‘She told me everything, Clive,’ Harry said. ‘How she was seasick, and you took her out on the rear deck and then threw her overboard. Don’t worry, matey, I know it all.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I don’t mind a bit! How else would we have got together? Seems like you did us both a big favour! Our little secret, eh?’

  ‘Our little secret.’

  Harry gave him a pat on the back. Then he nodded back towards the dining room. ‘That bird you’re with, she’s a cracker.’

  ‘Thank you, Harry. She is.’

  ‘Oh, I know! I know she is. You can just tell, can’t you? Maybe we should go on another cruise sometime? In a year or two when you’re getting bored of her. Give me a call. Just give me a call. I’d always be up for it. Know what I mean?’ He winked.

  Clive returned to his table. As he sat down, Imogen said, ‘That man you were in the loo with – how do you know him?’

  ‘I met him in another life.’

  She smiled wistfully. ‘So did I.’

  A DEAD SIMPLE PLAN

  Fifteen years ago I wrote a short story about a man who gets buried alive in a stag-night prank that subsequently goes horribly wrong.

  It was about a guy, Michael Harrison, who is extremely unreliable, but who persuades his beloved Ashley to marry him, on the promise that he’s going to change his ways. Then, on his stag night, his friends decide to pay him back, big time, for all the terrible pranks he has played on some of them on their stag nights . . . by burying him alive, in remote woodlands, for a couple of hours. They intend to return within two hours to dig him up again, but it all goes south.

  I never put this story forward for publication because I always felt there was something more that I could make of it than simply ending it the way I did. That turned out to be a good decision. One of the best I’ve ever made in my life! Because many years later I realized that what I had, rather than being a short story with a short shocker of an ending, was actually the start of a novel. Dead Simple became my most successful novel, and it launched the Roy Grace series.

  This is how it all began . . .

  It was Wednesday night, their last date before their wedding on Saturday, and, true to form, Michael was late. Very late. Actually, Ashley thought, that was being charitable. He was incredibly sodding bloody f***ing late. Ridiculously late. Over an hour late.

  As usual.

  On two occasions he had failed to turn up at all, and eight months ago, totally exasperated by his unreliability, she had dumped him. They had spent five months apart, during which time Michael was miserable as hell. He bombarded her, sometimes daily, with extravagant flowers, loving emails and tearful phone calls. She’d begun dating another guy, but he just wasn’t the same – neither as a companion nor as a lover. Michael was just such fun to be with, so full of energy and joie de vivre. It was a miserable time for her, too.

  Finally she realized she could not live without Michael. They’d begun seeing each other again, and four weeks later he proposed and she accepted.

  She looked at her watch and poured her third glass of wine, starting to feel a little smashed. It was now approaching 8.45 p.m. and he’d promised faithfully he would pick her up at 7.30 p.m. sharp. He was turning over a new leaf, he assured her. He would start their married life a changed man. Yeah, right.

  In spite of herself, she grinned. God, she loved him, but why the hell wouldn’t he wear a damned watch? Well, maybe she could change that. She’d bought him an insanely expensive Tag Heuer Aquaracer, as a wedding present, and she was going to give it to him tonight. And make him promise to wear it!

  Fifteen minutes later her doorbell rang. He stood outside her flat, his contrite expression barely visible behind the vast bouquet of flowers that almost dwarfed him.

  After a long, passionate kiss, she broke away and teasingly asked, ‘So what happened this time? Were you kidnapped by aliens again? Had to take a phone call from Barack Obama? Rescue a runaway horse?’

  He scratched the back of his head, looking contrite. ‘I’m so sorry, my darling. Mark rang. I had to go through some stuff urgently on the planning application. There’s just so much to do before we go away, and I want to have our honeymoon free and not be thinking about work. I’m trying to clear my desk and my email inbox, so I can devote the next two weeks to cherishing you, making love to you and then making love to you again.’

  ‘I like that plan!’ She grinned and kissed him again. ‘Want a drink, or shall we go?’

  ‘I rang the restaurant and changed the time, but we need to be there by nine. Or . . .’ he looked at her suggestively. ‘We could just go to bed and phone for a takeaway?’

  ‘I’m all dressed up, I think it would be nice to go out. We’ve got a ton of stuff to talk about. And I want to know all about your stag-night plans, coz I’m worried.’

  ‘Nothing to be worried about.’ He picked her wine glass up off the coffee table and took a long sip. ‘We’re just going on a pub crawl around Sussex – Mark’s hired a minibus. I’ll have the whole of Friday to recover from my hangover, Ash, and I’ll be fresh as a daisy for Saturday!’

  She gave him a dubious look. ‘Why does that not reassure me?’

  He gave her a hug and nuzzled her ear. ‘Come on, we’re just going to have a few drinks. No strippers, I’ve told the guys I don’t want it getting messy. We’re just going to have a few beers and then go home.’

  ‘Ha!’ she said.

  *

  An hour later, as their starters were being cleared away and the waiter poured more Champagne into their glasses, Ashley said, ‘How can I not worry, darling? You guys have a history of carrying out crazy pranks on stag nights.’

  He shrugged and raised his glass. ‘Yep, well, they’ve promised nothing bad’s going to happen.’

  ‘I know them,’ she said. ‘And I don’t trust them.’

  ‘Trust me!’ he said.

  She stared hard at him, tossing aside her long dark hair, and
blew him a kiss. ‘I wish I could!’

  ‘You can, I promise!’

  ‘I’ll trust you when I turn up to the church, go inside on my father’s arm and see you standing, looking at me, with Mark by your side, on Saturday afternoon. Until then, I’m going to be worried witless.’

  ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

  She curled her fingers around her glass, as the waiter set down her sea bass and Michael’s steak, followed by the vegetables. ‘I just don’t want to be stranded in the church, Michael, OK? I don’t want to find myself standing there for an hour until you rush in, all out of breath, saying you’re sorry, but you had some urgent emails to deal with!’

  ‘That is so not going to happen!’

  ‘It had better not,’ she said. ‘Because I won’t wait.’

  He slid his arm across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘I love you, Ashley. More than anything in the world. Saturday is going to be the best day of my life. I promise you faithfully I will be there, on time and horny as hell for you. I’m a changed man.’

  ‘Like you just showed me tonight? You are so damned unreliable, my darling. I love you to bits. But – I don’t know – I just have this feeling that you aren’t going to turn up to our wedding.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’

  ‘Then prove me wrong!’

  ‘I will, I absolutely will!’

  So far, apart from a couple of hitches, Plan A was working out fine. Which was fortunate, since they didn’t really have a Plan B.

  At 8.30 p.m. on a late May evening, they’d banked on having some daylight. There had been plenty of the stuff this time yesterday, when the five of them had made the same journey, taking with them an empty coffin and five shovels. But now, as the green Transit van sped along the Sussex country road, misty rain was falling from a sky the colour of a fogged negative.