How to Kill Your Family(82)

*

I knew it was a long shot – I couldn’t rely on such a sloppy approach – and yet something in me couldn’t shut it down without even trying it out, albeit from a slightly different tack. I wouldn’t waste any time on it – it was a one-time attempt and it had to be done fast, without too much thought. I took myself off at lunchtime to buy six luxury beauty products in cash from a few different department stores. I bought a range of face creams, one with peach seed extract. When I got back to the office, I locked myself in the disabled toilet, spread them out on the floor and got to work. The most expensive bottle contained a facemask made from pearls (is there anything now that brands won’t add to a beauty product to make it more desirable? At some point, a clever marketing manager will suggest using antimatter in a night serum and the rich women of London, Moscow and New York will lap it up) and I hazarded a guess that Bryony would, if she bothered even to open the box, have an eye for the most high-end product. This was the bottle I was staking it all on. It was a tree to be hidden in a forest – hence the other products ready to be packed beside it in a fancy box. All nice stuff, but she’d have tried most of it already. And there’s nothing as alluring to a vain Instagrammer as a new product promising a level of luminosity not seen before.

The facemask and the cream which contained the peach-seed extract were made by the same company. That was important for any future investigation. The other products were a mishmash of brands. I decanted four drops of the cream into the facemask bottle using a pipette I’d bought at a veterinary surgery a few weeks back (for my poor dog’s eye condition. Animal lovers are always mad to talk about ailments, and I had to work hard on my feet to explain the fictitious dog’s weepy eye to the weedy-looking nurse who seemed to find this condition completely fascinating) and shook the bottle vigorously. Opening it again, I sniffed the liquid. If it smelt like peach I’d be in trouble. It pretty much smelt like any generic face lotion. Sweet, but not identifiably fruity. I needed a little more reassurance though, and added one drop of the almond essence you add to cakes to be certain. That stuff overpowers anything else in a recipe. One more shake and I sniffed it again. Success. The liquid now reminded me of a bakery, warm and reassuring, which, given my intent, felt pleasingly inappropriate.

I carefully cleaned the bottle with a baby wipe, and threw the peach extract cream in the bin. The products then went into a plain white cardboard box lined with tissue paper. A card attached simply read ‘Bryony, we hope you enjoy these goodies – the pearl facemask is a dream! XX.’ I desperately wanted to say it was to DIE for but I couldn’t allow myself to be quite so on the nose. All wrapped up, I stashed the box in a bag under my desk and tried to forget about it as the working day dragged on.

I wasn’t normally someone to leave on the dot of 5.30 p.m., people who do that are usually the dullest and most aggravating colleagues – the kind that go on and on in inconsequential meetings and insist on a proper system for the communal fridge but refuse to engage in meaningful work. They are also the least fireable employees, since they have normally read their contract requirements thoroughly and know exactly what they can get away with. And not that it matters, but this particular kind of colleague is never the attractive charismatic one. They’re not leaving in order to go and get changed for an exciting party.

But bang on 5.30 p.m., I packed up my stuff and headed out, vaguely mentioning a doctor’s appointment in case anyone raised an eyebrow. Nobody did. People swanned in and out for appointments all the time, and it wasn’t uncommon for some members of staff to take ‘pamper hours’ where they’d duck out of the office for a teeth-whitening session or an eyebrow tint. ‘It’s great for customer interface,’ my boss would say, which meant nothing but let her go and get Botox on company time.

I managed to get to the parcel shop five minutes before closing. I sent it recorded delivery, assuming the Artemis housekeeper would sign for it, and gave no sender details. She wouldn’t look for them – people like Bryony receive a hundred gift boxes a week. As I stepped out into the fading autumn light, the shop bell tinkled as the door slammed shut. I took it as a sign. I would not check Bryony’s social media accounts in the hope that she’d succumbed. I’d given it a shot, and it was out of my hands now.

*

I spent the next month busy at work. Sale season was approaching, and I was organising the social media campaigns and making sure that discount emails were sent out to customers who’d signed up to receive them. I knew from research that 95 per cent of these went unread, dropped in spam boxes the moment they landed. It was a pointless exercise, but data was invaluable, we were told. The tone of the messages we sent out was enough to make even the most ardent shopper a card-carrying anti-consumerist. The word ‘Fri-yay’ was used in one email before I shut it down. When I wasn’t trying to preserve the English language and my own dignity in the office, I was looking at new ways to kill Bryony.

As with all the previous deaths, it felt important that this one should take place while Bryony was doing something normal for her. It lent more credibility to the accident scenario and required less elaborate planning. I want these killings done – done well, yes, but I’m not an enthusiastic fan of homicide, researching the most fascinating and gruesome ways to kill. There’s a certain art to a good murder. I will admit to being impressed by the lengths that some people will go to, but I don’t want to get caught up in more and more extreme plans which eventually result in me hanging off a zip line through central London, decapitating someone with a samurai sword just for theatrics.