England!
Joan watched Victor drive off to work the next day in his usual cheery Monday morning mood. He was even more cheery than usual, she thought, despite the fact that this was the start of his last week at work.
She had too much on her mind to dwell on this. She busied herself with the household chores. Later it would be time to catch the bus for her afternoon shift at the supermarket. She needed to put on a good show of normality, so she gathered all Victor’s dirty underwear from the laundry basket to do a wash. She was a little surprised that his boiler suit was not in there. She hunted everywhere, wondering where he might have left it, but she could not find it.
Never mind, she thought, with a wicked smile. With her plan, he wouldn’t need it again. Not where he was going ...
Chapter Seven
Every human being has a weak spot. Victor’s was his diabetes, Joan knew. Too much sugar and he would fall sound asleep. Then he would snore like an elephant, keeping her awake all night. Her plan was simple. All she needed to do was to swap the insulin in his needle for sugar and he would go into a deep sleep. A very deep sleep.
While he was asleep she would inject some more sugar. Then some more still.
Until he stopped snoring. Until he stopped breathing.
She had it planned, to sweet perfection.
On this Monday evening of his last week at work, Victor arrived home and opened the front door with his latch key. He was surprised by what he found. His wife was stark naked, except for a black lace bra and a matching thong, and she was standing in red high-heeled shoes. She reeked of perfume.
‘Aren’t you cold?’ he said. It was mid-February.
‘I thought you might like a blow job, my darling husband!’ she said.
‘Actually, not really,’ he replied. He did not add that he’d just had one at the Kitten Parlour. ‘I think I’d prefer a beer. You look cold. You’ve got goose pimples.’
‘I can warm you up, my darling,’ she replied.
‘I’m warm,’ he said. ‘But I’m worried about you.’
She brushed up sexily against him, and pressed her fingers against his crotch. ‘Let’s go to bed, my angel,’ she said.
‘Thanks, but
‘We can record it.’
‘I’d rather watch it now.’
She kissed him. ‘Tell me, my angel, if you were to be hanged in the morning, what would your last meal be?’
He thought for a moment, then answered, ‘Prawn cocktail, rib-eye steak, mushrooms, tomatoes, chips and peas. Followed by hot chocolate pudding with hot chocolate sauce. Why?’
‘Well, that’s a coincidence!’ she said. ‘Guess what’s for supper?’
‘Don’t tell me you have all that?’
‘For my darling Victor, nothing less would be good enough!’
Joan thought that the hot chocolate pudding with hot chocolate sauce would mask the amount of sugar.
Victor wondered if she had been drinking. Maybe she had been taking drugs. Or perhaps she wanted a car of her own instead of having to share his?
Soon after finishing the meal he fell asleep on the sofa, with Poirot busily solving a crime in front of him.
She texted Don, as planned.
Twenty minutes later, Don arrived at the Smileys’ front door. But the frown on his face was not part of their plan.
‘There’s a problem,’ he said.
Chapter Eight
‘I’ve just been watching
‘I like
‘Yep, well, you wouldn’t have liked this one tonight. It was about diabetics. Right?’
Something about the way he said it made her shiver. ‘Tell me.’
‘Several diabetics have been murdered by people giving them overdoses. In some cases they give too much insulin, in others they give too much sugar. They have new forensic ways of testing. We can’t risk it! We’re going to have to get rid of the body.’
‘No!’ she said. ‘That’s not the plan! We agreed I would call the doctor in the morning, after he’s nice and cold. That’s the plan.’
‘It doesn’t work any more,’ Don replied. ‘They’ll know he’s had a massive sugar overdose.’
‘I could tell them he’s been depressed since losing his job. I could forge a suicide note,’ she added helpfully.
‘Too dangerous.’
