Never Trust a Callboy (2 page)

Damn! The stranger, who somehow managed to get himself killed and then find his way into my house, is still sitting on a bar stool in my kitchen.

"What on earth do I do now?" I yell at the dead man. But of course he doesn’t answer me.

I feel dizzy all of a sudden. With a groan I let myself sink down onto the kitchen floor. I don’t have the strength to stand up and do what needs to be done; namely, call the police and explain to them why exactly I told them everything was okay, when it clearly isn’t. I couldn’t have known that someone had in fact broken into my house. The alarm system was on! I know it was. In fact, I had to disable it before I opened the door.

So someone had to have entered the house and left again without setting it off, someone who knew the code. And there are only three people who know it, Ron, my mother, and me.

Ron .... or me! One of us committed murder, and I'm pretty sure I didn't do it. Which only leaves one possibility: Ron. Unless my mother opened her big mouth and told someone the code. No. Impossible. My mother may like to talk, a lot, but she would never do that.

I shake my head trying to dislodge these thoughts. Ron is as incapable of committing murder as I am, or my mother. There must be another explanation for all of this.

Do I know this man at all? So far I’ve only looked at the stranger from a couple of meters away. I assumed automatically that I didn't know him. But what if that's not true? He’s lying face down on the counter, so it’s not easy to tell.

I carefully put one foot in front of the other and creep up on him. A chill runs down my spine. I’ve never seen a dead body before.

As I get closer to him I move even more quietly.

Quieter still. I hold my breath. He’s dead, he can do nothing more to me. But despite that still I’m afraid.

I edge even closer.

Just a bit more and then ... I’m standing right in front of him. I can see that he has blue eyes. A beautiful, dark blue, which creates an unusual contrast with his black hair. His mouth is slightly open, as if he wants to say something.

I've never seen this man before in my life.

How can this have happened, without me noticing anything?

"What should I do?" I shake my head at a loss and take a few steps backwards, without averting my eyes from him, just in case he suddenly moves. In case he lunges at me, like you see in horror films. No! It’s not going to happen to me. I'm not so stupid as to turn my back on someone sitting supposedly dead on my bar stool.

Suddenly I have a thought that makes everything so much worse, causing a feeling of terror to hit me like a punch in the gut.

What if the killer is still in the house? What if he’s waiting to kill me too?

I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on my breathing. I have to stop myself shaking, and I don't want to throw up. Inhale, exhale. Inhale... It’s not so hard. After all, I have been doing it all my life. Inhale, exhale.

T
he door of the guest room hits the wall with a loud crash and bounces back again. "Ow!" My angry exclamation is accompanied by a loud bang. I stare at the gun I’ve just pulled out of Ron's bedside table in puzzlement. This thing is loaded! And the safety is off!

How can Ron be so irresponsible as to leave a weapon lying around that can go off at any time?

"Bloody idiot."

With a grimace, I rub my arm, which hurts from where the door just hit me. I can see a bruise forming. Then my eyes wander down to my feet, to the spot where the gun is now lying. Damn! If I'm not careful I’ll shoot my toes off. I have no idea how to secure the thing. Even so I’d better pick it up. I hold the gun pointing upwards, so that at the worst it will only do damage to the ceiling. Then I enter the room slowly.

My eyes search the room, pausing briefly to look at the hole I just shot in the wall. Perhaps it would be best to hang a picture there. Then I look under the bed and in the wardrobes, anywhere someone could hide. Nothing. Everything is exactly as it should be, except for the hole in the wall.

Half an hour later it is clear that there is nobody in the house except for me, and the dead man of course. Not even a Lilliputian would have escaped my thoroughness. After the little incident with the pistol, I was a lot more careful. I opened all the other doors, but dispensed with the Lara Croft impression. The basement was the worst. There are not only a lot of dark corners, but also a lot of spiders.

With a deep breath I lean against the wall in the hallway and close my eyes. At least now I know that the murderer is no longer in the house. But another question remains: who called the police, and more importantly, why?

The thought creeps through my head like a cold shiver. But that's not all. It is followed by another, much more terrible, idea. What if Ron's gun is the murder weapon?

The whole damn thing is now covered with my fingerprints.

I try once again to order my thoughts. Because I need to get this mess under control.

So... Why is it a good idea to call the police? Because that's what you do when you find a corpse. For a few minutes I rack my brain for further arguments.

Well then, what’s the counterargument? It is not a good idea to call the police because:

Okay, maybe it's still too early to go to the police with this problem.

I
walk through the wet grass towards the back corner of our property. It’s taken me a while to calm down, but I’ve just about pulled myself together instead of sitting on the floor, cowering against the wall throwing my guts up.

I any case, I used the time to come to a decision. It is not a decision I have much enthusiasm for. In fact the words “I must be crazy,” spring to mind. On the other hand I can’t think of a better solution to my problem. Which is why I am now walking across our huge estate through the stuffy evening air which has replaced the summer drizzle of the day.

I arrive in the part of the garden, which is dominated by old, gnarled trees sooner than I would like. The branches of a weeping willow hang low on the ground, creating a melancholy atmosphere; reminiscent of a graveyard.

Now all I have to do is bring out the dead body. I feel sick just at the thought of it. But I have no other choice. Although I have racked my brains for another way out, one thing is for certain: if I tell the police, I'm their prime suspect.

I would have preferred to have a few days to grapple with the problem, I need as much time as possible before making a decision this big. But in this case I have to act quickly. What if my mother suddenly misses me and decides to show up for a visit? Or one of my friends?

No. It needs to be done immediately, even though I don't quite know how I’m going to do it just yet.

Maybe I should go to the police after all...? A series of haunting images appear in my mind’s eye. Me being led off in handcuffs, sitting in a cell at the police station, and having to explain why my fingerprints are all over the gun.

Ron, looking desperately worried for me, saying: “Tamara would never be able to kill a man. Never!"

My father doing a television interview, saying how sorry he is to have failed in the education of his daughter. Just like the last time...

The memory brings with it a familiar feeling: determination. I will not be held responsible for a crime I didn’t commit, not again.

As so often before, this decision is immediately followed by doubt. I must be crazy. Completely crazy.

After I reassure myself that I do in fact have the ability to follow through with this absurd idea (unless of course a better solution arises that at present evades me) I return to the house. It cannot hurt to take the first steps in planning how I would bury the stranger in the garden. Besides, the planning helps me to curb my anxiety. I’m not shaking as badly as I was before. I’ve found at least a measure of calm; not much, but at least enough to carry on without needing sit in a corner and cry.

Feeling a little more relaxed, I decide I need to change the locks, but just as I’m reaching for the telephone to call a locksmith, a shrill ringing rips through the silence. My heart starts beating wildly in my chest.

"It was just the phone.” I say out loud, to soothe the frenzied heart-pounding in my chest. “The stupid bloody phone." Damn it! I can’t waste my time with trivial calls. Nevertheless, I take the call when I see the number on the display. It’s my mother.

"Tamara. Why haven’t you called me back? I wanted to tell you that I’ve found some wonderful curtains. I’ll bring a couple of samples over later," she says immediately, before I even have time to say "Hello."

Later? When later?

I hastily try to nip this idea in the bud: "You can't come over now!"

"But why not? I'm already on my way."

"You're already on your way?" I have to pull myself together in order not to yell into the phone. "That’s not possible. I'm almost out the door. I have meetings all day. You can come tomorrow or the day after," or next week, I add, but only in thought.

"That’s not a problem, honey. I’ll just come over for a couple of minutes to see if the colors match. You don’t need to be there for me to do that."

"No!"

"What’s wrong with you today?"

"I... I'm a little busy. Our cleaning lady is coming, I have to discuss the menu with the caterer, and the interior decorator wants me to approve the Italian tiles." I could continue with the endless list, but I run out of breath.

"It would be better if I come to these meetings with you."

Bloody hell. I search desperately for an acceptable explanation as to why my mother, who after all only wants to be helpful, should stay away from these important negotiations. Then again I did decide last night not to put up with her meddling anymore, so I will confront her with the truth. In the future she has to stay out of my life, especially when it comes to such decisions as my wedding. And then of course there’s the corpse, which she cannot be allowed to discover...

"Better not. Really, it's awfully nice of you, but I have a hair appointment in between and afterwards I have to pop over to Nigel’s. He wants me to start working with him in the Gallery as soon as we get back from our honeymoon." Well, at least it’s a start.  I did say no, sort of.

"If that’s what you want." As always, she manages to convey a lot of emotions in these few words. I can just picture her standing in front of me, with that chastising look she has, which says I'm making a huge mistake. And this time she might actually be right.

My mother finishes the conversation abruptly, as she usually does, without saying goodbye. With a deep sigh I sink down on to the couch. Lucky escape. Usually once she’s on her way there's nothing that can knock her off course. Anyway, I have got to get that body out of the house, before my mother changes her mind and comes by anyway. But first I need to call the locksmith. I want new locks, today!

"Damn, damn, damn!" The extensive cursing is the only thing that helps me release a little tension in the current situation.

"Where is the stupid thing?" I'm desperately searching the garage. I can’t find the swimming pool cover anywhere. Ron has probably stowed it away in a box somewhere. Hours later, or at least it feels like it, my eyes fall on a neatly put together blue package, located on the far corner of a high shelf.

The tarp is already pretty frayed so we were going to throw it away. Now I’ve found the perfect use for it. No one will miss it, and Ron will think it ended up in the rubbish dump just like it was supposed to. No one will realize that there’s a corpse rotting inside it. The plastic will be probably take more than a hundred years to decompose.

It doesn’t matter. I'm not in the mood to worry about environmental pollution today. Instead, I put on a pair of gardening gloves and pull the tarp out of the garage, drag it across the terrace into the house, over to the food counter, and right up to where the dead man is still sitting on his bar stool.

Okay. Deep breath. And another one. He's already dead. I'm not going to hurt him. All I have to do is tip him off of the stool and on to the tarp. Right.

With a muffled thud, he falls on to the plastic. My stomach turns and I throw up, not on the white carpet, but into the large flower pot which is luckily standing right next to me. It's a bit of time before I can see again without stars. I almost regret the fact that I can now keep going. Somehow it was more comfortable standing around helplessly, because that kept me from having to do anything.

But now I have to get him into the garden. Although I know that there’s no other choice, I can’t bring myself to keep going. Only after a long inner struggle do I manage to throw one half of the tarp over his motionless body. At least now that he’s under the cover you can only just tell it’s a body, and he’s not staring at me anymore, which is much better. I then grab a corner of the cover, choosing the one which is as far away as possible from the body lying within, and drag the whole thing behind me.

I’ve not even made it over the terrace yet and already I’m sweating as if I were in a sauna.

Gasping for breath, I stop and wipe off the sweat. And then onwards. There’s at least a hundred meters to go. If I continue at this rate, it’ll take all day.

And then I hear it. Again.

The doorbell.

Shit. Shit. Shit. If it’s the police again I’m done for, I’ll get sentenced to life in prison.

T
he body has to go. At least far enough that I can no longer see it from the terrace. I feel like a Chinese slave worker. Now I know how it feels to drive fat tourists around in a rickshaw.

Again the ringing. Damn it, just five meters to go. Suddenly I hear a sound that causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.

The door locks being opened. One after the other. Since our entrance is secured like Fort Knox, the sound carries out to the terrace quite clearly. It can only be my mother.