Spider Light(79)
Antonia usually left the hospital at around half past six and each night Donna followed her.
Each evening Weston got home between seven and half past, put her car into the garage at the side of the bungalow, locked it, and then went in through the glass-panelled front door. She often had a briefcase with her, or a laptop. Donna imagined her having dinner with the dark-haired man, and then perhaps retiring to a study or a spare bedroom to work. Very cosy indeed. But not for much longer, Doctor Weston. There would surely come a night when Weston did not go straight home to the warm welcoming bungalow, and that was the night Donna was waiting for.
By the fifth night she no longer bothered with the hospital, she drove directly to the bungalow, parking in different places in the road each time, or using one of the side roads and walking back. At one end of the road was a small group of shops, with a pub. On one of the nights a man came out of the pub as she was passing it, and said, ‘Hello darling, going my way?’ Donna ignored him and walked quickly on, but the small encounter worried her and she was careful to park at the other end of the road afterwards. You never knew how much people might remember about even the most casual of meetings.
Every night Antonia came faithfully home and did not go out again. As the second week wore on, Donna began to panic because she could not extend her holiday much longer.
But two nights before she was due back at Jean-Pierre’s, she sat in her car and watched the dashboard clock click its way from seven fifteen to seven thirty, and then to ten minutes to eight. Antonia had never been this late before. Might she have gone out straight from the hospital? Could Donna risk making her move? Supposing Weston had only called at a late-opening supermarket or was stuck in traffic?
Ten past eight. Surely the bitch was safely out of the way? Donna went over the plan one more time. There were one or two weak points, and the weakest of all was the necessity for the man being in the bungalow on his own. If he was not there, Donna would wait for another night when Weston was out. Fortune favours the bold, remember that, Donna, and the stars in their courses fight for the steadfast of heart. And it’s a quarter past eight, so you’d better get on with things.
She put on thin cotton gloves and pulled on thick socks over the lightweight slip-on shoes she was wearing. She had picked up the idea about the socks from a crime book. If you put large-sized socks over your shoes, it gave you two advantages: it prevented telltale shoe prints being left anywhere, and if you trod in blood or glass all you had to do was step back out of it, slip the socks off, and walk away with them in your pocket and your shoes unmarked. Last of all, she pocketed the heavy glass paperweight, keeping it tied inside a clean handkerchief. Then she got out of the car, closed and locked the door, and walked along to the bungalow.
He was in! There was a light on in the room on the right. It was a fairly low light–it might be a table lamp–but the curtains were open and she could see Antonia’s dark-haired musician clearly. He was seated at the piano as he had been before, and this time he was playing without breaking off.
She watched him for a few moments, her heart racing, and then, taking several deep breaths and glancing up and down the road to make sure no one was watching, she pushed open the gate. It swung inwards and she went in, careful to keep to the grass edges so her footsteps would not crunch on the gravel drive.
The man was playing the piano quite loudly; Donna could hear it now. Although she did not recognize what he was playing–she was not very knowledgeable about music–it sounded complicated and rather showy. Trickles and trills of notes cascading up and down.
The paperweight broke the glass panel in the front door as easily as if it had been Cellophane, and the glass fell inwards onto a carpet. Practically soundless. Donna replaced the paperweight in her coat pocket, and waited to see if there was any reaction from inside. If there was, she would be back down the drive and vanishing into the shadows within seconds. But nothing stirred, and the piano-playing continued. So far so good. Could she reach inside the door and release the catch? Yes, she could. The door opened, and she stepped inside.
The warmth and scents of Antonia’s home folded around Donna, and her excitement spiralled upwards. This was it, the plan was gathering speed, and soon–perhaps in half an hour’s time–this bitch would get what she deserved.
The piano music was still going on so the man really had not heard her. She vaguely recognized the music now–it was used for the opening of one of those late-night arty-type programmes. The South Bank Show, was it? Standing in the darkened hall, Donna began to dislike the music very much; she began to feel that something inside it was watching her, and it was conjuring up jeering demons, red-eyed and sly.
We know what you’re going to do, said these slant-eyed demons. We know about the plan, and we approve, Donna…But if you get into trouble, don’t expect us to help you…We like murder but we’re the last people to ask for help if something goes wrong, in fact we’re more likely to grass on you to save our own skin.
This was utterly ridiculous. There were no voices inside the music, and this was stupid nerves, nothing more. Donna stood very still. The bungalow was in darkness, except for the soft low light spilling through the half-open door of the music room. She would have to do something about that light.
Listening intently to the piano-playing, every nerve tensed in case it suddenly stopped, Donna went cautiously along the hall. Would the kitchen be at the back of the bungalow? Yes, here it was, a big room, dim and cool. There was a tiled floor and modern fittings, and someone had partly prepared a meal: on a work surface were diced peppers, and chicken and tiger prawns defrosting in a shallow dish. A crusty French loaf was on a chopping board. It looked as if Weston was coming home to eat, which meant she could be home at any minute, which meant that Donna had better buck up her ideas.