This is the second part of a fiction serial, in 799 words.
Wanting to kill your wife and actually doing it are two very different things. Unless you don’t care about geting caught and serving life for her murder of course. Then I could just have taken her birthday gift drill out of the box and drilled straight through her head with it.
But I didn’t want to get caught.
Lots of methods go through your mind. You can’t look them up online, as that might look suspicious if the police decide to seize your computer and mobile phone. No, it all has to be done from memory and invention, each possible method examined and discarded. Nothing can be written down either. Even if you burned the paper later, something like that could also be deemed suspicious.
Poison was out of the question, as that would show up in the post-mortem. It had to look like an accident, a tragic accident.
Even that doesn’t give you many options. You have to consider your alibi, as you mustn’t be in the vicinity of where that accident happened. They check your phone activations on masts too, so that has to have the battery removed. Might even be best to break the thing so it wasn’t working at all, then claim a replacement from the insurance later.
Accidents involving twenty-seven year-old women usually involve cars. Or horses, or swimming, or skiing, or cycles. They don’t often die by electrocution when fixing a fuse box, break their neck playing netball, or fall off a ladder while clearing gutters. They are unlikely to stab themselves in the groin and bleed out whilst filleting a leg of pork, or accidentally pour a whole kettle of boiling water over their head while making two cups of tea.
In fact, fatal accidents involving females under forty are surprisingly rare.
Tampering with her car was not going to work. If she died in a car accident they would be bound to investigate the vehicle. And if she only received minor injuries, there would be no point. She was far too fit and healthy to have a heart attack or stroke as she exercised at the gym, and it was too early for a smoking-related illness to free me from her. And she was such a strong swimmer, drowning seemed unlikely. Besides, she was always swimming with her friend.
It wasn’t long before I realised that I was going to have to do something physical to kill her, and make it look like an accident.
That also took a lot of thought. DNA wasn’t a problem, as we were married. If the accident happened in the home, it would not seem remotely suspicious that I was there at the time, as long as the cause of death looked completely accidental.
Eve didn’t know it, but she provided me with the perfect solution when she returned from a shopping trip one Saturday afternoon. Opening various bags, she delighted in showing me the things she had bought using credit card money we couldn’t afford to spend. New gym clothes, a thing like a wristwatch that monitored her pulse and blood pressure, assorted sensible underwear, some horrifically expensive Nike trainers, and a new pair of ‘going-out’ shoes.
Her voice rose to a squeal when she showed me the shoes. Red velvet, with huge spike heels that would probably add eight inches to her height. She slipped them on, and walked around the living room, the high arch of the shoes pitching her forward unnaturally until she got used to the feeling. Stopping by the front window, she raised one leg.
“Aren’t they just fabulous, Daniel? God knows I will never be able to dance in them, and I will have to get a taxi to meet the girls when I wear them, but it’s worth it. They were great value too, marked down to one hundred and fifty. Look, you can see the designer name on the sole”. Resisting the urge to complain about how much she had spent, I simply smiled and nodded.
Two weeks later, the night arrived. Meeting the girls in a restaurant at seven, taxi booked for six-thirty. After the meal, it was on to a club. One of her friends was thirty that day, and they were going to make a night of it She was upstairs getting ready when I casually wandered into the bedroom to tell her she looked nice. In fact, she looked like a prostitute, in my opinion. The dress that matched the shoes had probably cost as much as them, and there was hardly anything of it. Too low cut, and far too short.
Carrying the shoes in her left hand she walked out of the bedroom, with me following close behind.
That’s when I picked her up, and threw her head-first down the stairs.