The Burning (44 page)

I slept well, afterwards. It was a victimless crime. I’d saved other women from the same fate Rebecca had endured, and besides, he had deserved to die.

The big mistake – the huge great fucking mistake that has landed me here – was to tell her what I’d done. I knew it was stupid. I knew I should have said nothing. But I couldn’t stand the conjecture. Maybe he drowned himself. Maybe he felt guilty about what happened. Maybe he would have apologised one day. Maybe maybe maybe.

The ridiculous thing was that I thought she’d be pleased. I thought she’d thank me. But I told her what I’d done – how clever I’d been – and she looked at me as if she didn’t know who I was. And Adam had his revenge, even from face down in the Thames, because it was only when I told her what I’d done that the light truly went out of her eyes. They were as dull and unreflective as mud, and they stayed that way. (I didn’t see them sparkle again until she met you, which just proves she hadn’t learned her lesson.)

Rebecca and I obviously fell out over Adam. I was annoyed that she couldn’t appreciate what I’d done for her. She was upset that I’d killed him, I suppose. It was the best gift I could think to give her and she threw it back in my face. Anyway, we didn’t talk for a while. She had her little breakdown and opted out of her exams. I got on with mine.

The following year, Avril and Gerald persuaded us to meet up together in London. We sort of picked up where we’d left off. Things weren’t quite the same – how could they be? – but we were on good terms. She was disappointed with her degree but it was OK; it was good enough to get her into PR, and that suited her down to the ground. Enthusiasm, organisation, persuasion, charm – the role was made for Rebecca. The new Rebecca, who had energy to burn and was always cheerful. It was entirely fake, but no one else would have noticed. She was acting all the time, pretending to be happy, pretending to be fulfilled when really, her life was empty.

I was starting to work my way up at PG, impressing the right people while I was doing my training contract, working out where I wanted to specialise. Mergers and acquisitions, the fun bit, the high-powered late-night deal-making bit. It absorbed me. I saw Rebecca, but only about twice a month. We emailed. I phoned her, now and then. She was out a lot in the evenings, for work. She seemed to be finding her feet. She got tired, after a while, and someone gave her a bit of coke to help her out.

She liked cocaine. She liked it a little bit too much. Weak, you see.

And she knew too much about me.

As I said, there was a beautiful symmetry in trying to frame you for Rebecca’s death, because if you follow it back far enough, it was your fault. If you hadn’t split up with her the way you did, she wouldn’t have been broken-hearted. Maybe the rejection reminded her of Adam. Maybe she thought you were special, or something. I wouldn’t have wasted any time crying over you, but Rebecca was different. If you hadn’t made her feel like shit, she wouldn’t have let her little cocaine habit get out of hand. She wouldn’t have lost her job. She wouldn’t have been struggling to pay rent and bills. She wouldn’t have been desperate for money to stop her parents and friends from finding out she was broke. I was the only one who knew, at first, and I was the last person she should have told, because I was already worried about her. I was going up the ladder and she was sliding down a great big snake. The evil bit of me enjoyed it, a little – it was proof that she wasn’t perfect after all – but mostly I was just worried for her.

Then she got money out of Caspian Faraday (who got such a kick out of it, from what she told me. The
drama
of being blackmailed by his beautiful young lover …). The alarm bells really started to ring in my mind. She was brooding on the past, on Oxford, and she said she was thinking about getting in touch with Adam’s parents, just to talk to them. I could read between the lines. She knew what I’d done, and I knew that the investigation into his death could be reopened easily if there was new evidence. She was desperate; she was bound to ask for money sooner rather than later. And I didn’t want to give it to her. It was my money, and my life she was in a position to wreck by telling someone what I’d done. No way.

For someone who doesn’t take drugs, I know a hell of a lot about illegal pharmaceuticals. I ordered Rohypnol from an Internet pharmacy, using my secretary’s credit card, and had it sent to a PO box I’d hired in the same name. (I also bought flights to Lagos and a flat-screen TV, just to muddy the waters a bit more. No need to worry; the card company noticed those and she didn’t have to pay for any of it.) I asked Rebecca to come to dinner on the Wednesday night. She was so trusting, so grateful to me for feeding her. She’d lost a lot of weight, I thought. I could see her shoulder blades jutting through the wool of her jumper. She wasn’t looking her best, truth be told. You wouldn’t have been impressed, put it that way.

The plan was so simple. I dosed her drink with the Rohypnol and she passed out, like a good little victim. I kept her in my spare bedroom for the next twenty-four hours. Every time she stirred, I gave her a drink that knocked her out again. She never knew where she was or what she was doing there. I stripped out the room completely afterwards. You know how I never got around to redecorating? Changing the decor wasn’t exactly the point. Trace evidence was what worried me. Fibres. Hair. Skin cells. Fingerprints. I’d cleaned the room, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t be sure. And I like being sure.

On the Thursday night, late, I went to the room. I made sure she was out of it – she had no idea what was going on. I put make-up on her. I dressed her in expensive clothes, the kind she would have worn to see you. I made her look beautiful, and then – well, I did it.

I don’t want to talk about killing her. It was horrible. I was just focused on imitating what the serial killer was doing. He was a bit too violent for my tastes, a bit too physical. I’d done my research but I sort of knew I might get some of it wrong, even though the fire should hide any mistakes I’d made. That was all right. I had already lined you up as my suspect of choice.

I went to Rebecca’s flat the next day. I hadn’t planned to. But lying in bed, I started thinking about how she’d always written things down.
Dinner with Louise
. It was probably on a calendar somewhere. On a Post-it note. Or in her diary. I didn’t want it there. I didn’t want any recent contact between us. So I went over and I started searching. At the same time, I cleaned the whole place, so there was no evidence you
hadn’t
been there. I took a pen with your initials on it. Rebecca bought it for you but you broke up with her before she had a chance to give it to you. I don’t know why she kept it. Wishful thinking, perhaps, in case you came back. You might not remember this, but I showed it to you after the memorial service – got you to hold it so your prints were on it. I thought I’d show it to the police at some stage, worriedly, and say I’d found it in Rebecca’s flat but not thought twice about it at the time.
Nudge nudge. Investigate Gil. Don’t focus on me. I’m not important
. But when I got around to it, I was too late.

It was a bit of a sickener when the police turned up at the flat before I was ready. I was so close to leaving, too. I had to come up with a story about how untidy Rebecca was – when she would have been the last person to leave something out of place – and pretend to be overcome with emotion so I could finish checking the flat for giveaway hints to where Rebecca had been. I thought I’d been pretty convincing, for a spur of the moment lie. Not convincing enough, maybe. I should have pretended to have OCD or something. But I knew Rebecca’s friends thought I was her slave. They would have told the police as much. I thought I’d get away with that one.

I threw out Rebecca’s clothes that she’d worn to dinner with me. I got rid of anything I’d worn while she was in my house, and of course what I’d been wearing when I killed her. The same went for my car. Bye bye, old car, with your DNA particles and fabric fibres that might link me to Rebecca. Hello, sporty new car, clean and evidence free. As a manifestation of grief, it was a very nice one. Quite understandable, too, that I would devote myself to living it up now that Rebecca was gone.

But all along the line, I’ve made mistakes. Talked too much to the wrong people. Tried to be too clever. That’s something I’ve always done. I can get so far but no further. I got into Oxford, and I got a 2.1 in the end, but by the skin of my teeth – absolute rock bottom of the class. And I worked hard. God, I worked. Then, when I started at PG, I worked more than anyone else. I worked more than anyone should. I didn’t want anyone to have an excuse to get rid of me. It’s sad, but I would never have made partner. I certainly won’t now.

Then again, there are lots of things I won’t do now. I’ve lost everything I’d worked for. Everything I wanted. All gone because of Rebecca. So you could say I deserve it.

I’ve had enough, Gil. I’ve said what I wanted to. I’ve owned up to my crimes; the punishment is up to me too. There’s nothing the state can do to rehabilitate me. And prison would not have suited me – all those people, and no prospect of any peace, ever. Most of the women here are addicts and prostitutes, mentally ill, unstable in various ways. It’s the world I took great pains to leave behind me, but I’m beginning to realise that I never truly got away. You can change everything about yourself – the way you look, the way you talk, the way you behave – but you can’t escape what you truly are.

I’m sorry my plan didn’t work out. I’m sorry I won’t get another chance to make you pay for what you’ve done.

I won’t miss you, and somehow I doubt you’ll miss me.

And now it’s time to go.

L.