The Woman In My Home

THE WOMAN IN MY HOME DIANA WILKINSON CONTENTS The Plot Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Chapter 58 Chapter 59 Chapter 60 Chapter 61 Chapter 62 Chapter 63 Chapter 64 Chapter 65 Chapter 66 Chapter 67 Chapter 68 Chapter 69 Chapter 70 Chapter 71 Chapter 72 Chapter 73 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Chapter 82 Chapter 83 Chapter 84 Chapter 85 Chapter 86 Chapter 87 Chapter 88 Chapter 89 Chapter 90 Chapter 91 Chapter 92 Chapter 93 Chapter 94 Acknowledgments More from Diana Wilkinson About the Author About Boldwood Books The Murder List To Mum and Dad. And to Ballyholme… a tiny corner of heaven. Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves. CONFUCIUS THE PLOT It’s 11 p.m. Pitch black. An owl hoots, a sarcastic scream of company. The squawk makes me freeze. I think of Squid Games. One, two, three red lights. If I move, I’ll be shot. A salvo of bullets that’ll blow my brains out. It’s that crazy what I’m about to do. Not to mention what I’ve already done. I deserve to be shot, but not without a fight. I feel delirious, hysterical. Adrenaline, fear, and anticipation are a heady cocktail. I unwind the metal tape measure till it stretches to just over six feet. It should be ample. I dig the heel of my shoe in at each end of the designated plot, then repeat for the width. A generous four feet. The tape measure doesn’t lock, recoils across my fingers, and gashes a bloodied line across the inside of my palm. Shit. Shit. Shit. The owl hoots again. Yoo-hoo. I see you. The hoot sounds like a laugh, but that’s no surprise. The scene is comical. Even to me, but needs must. I didn’t discuss the details of my plan, suffice though that I shared the intent. Well, it was my intent to share, without voicing the details. Who does share murder stories anyway? Certainly not personal ones. I hoot back at the owl. There is plenty of choice when trying to decide on how to dispose of a body. You’d be surprised. I googled all the options, which I now run through in my head. Like a final summing up, as I convince the jury I’ve made the right decision. I pace up and down, across the plot, and stride over the diagonals. Perhaps dumped at sea would have been better. But there’s always CCTV cameras, randomly positioned along arterial roads. Even country lanes aren’t safe, random beasts roaming into headlights, causing carnage. Creating a staged abduction in the park. Any park. Which park though? Google wasn’t as helpful as I’d hoped. Then there is the close to home disposal. Even with my relatively strong arms, I’m not sure I could have moved a body any real distance without some help. As it is, humping it into a car would have been a nightmare. As soon as the deed was done, I managed to drag the leaden weight down the stairs. I then hoisted the still warm cadaver, with not some little effort, onto the wheeled palette on which the wooden planks had been stacked. I’d lifted the planks off earlier, in preparation. All that’s left to do is wheel the palette a couple of feet, roll the body over until it tumbles into the grave. It’s pretty goddam smart to be honest. I walk backwards, forwards, sideways, around, and back again before I finally pick up the spade. And begin to dig. Two hours in. I’ve hardly scraped the surface. Shit. Shit. Shit. The earth is summer baked, solid, and only starts to loosen when I unravel the hose by the fence, and spend a good ten minutes soaking the surface. I finally make progress, the hole becoming more of a pit, and I dare to breathe again. Three hours in. Sweat drips off me like water from a leaky pipe. It coats my vision, the torch on my mobile phone flickering in and out as I try to blink back the focus. Four hours in. I set the spade down, and walk once more around the plot. It’s taking shape. At last I’m hopeful I can pull it off. I knock back another bottle of water, the liquid refluxing when it hits the back of my throat, and pick up the spade. Five hours. I feel like a prisoner working for the Nazis, every weakened effort getting another lash. Until it’s finally done. 4.28 a.m. I move across to the palette and the roughly packaged body. The black bin bags have rips, gaps, and I gag when frozen flesh appears. But I concentrate on pushing the contraption up the garden, the wheels stubborn on the uneven path slabs, inch by sweaty inch towards the open grave. With an almighty heave, I roll the body off, and into the hole. As it hits the bottom, one of the bin bags rips completely apart and exposes the top half of the torso. I reel backwards. WTF. WTF. My legs are giving up the ghost. The Nazi commander is about to shoot me, and shove me in to lie alongside. I somehow hold myself together, and concentrate on counting out ten pieces of wood from the neatly stacked pile. That should