‘Mr Dawson and you? My goodness, I never realised.’ I got up and went into the kitchen. My anger was volcanic. I uncorked a bottle of Chardonnay, cheap and rancid like my guest. As I fiddled round in the kitchen, my attention was drawn to the neat row of knives, and I felt the most intense urge to pick one up and saw through her chicken bones. A small razor-sharp paring knife held my gaze.

If Amber and Mitch were due to be married, or even if her story were to be believed by the investigating officers, then Rebecca would have had a motive for murder. My goddess, the love of my life, would be in the frame. Fuelled by jealous failure and rejection, Rebecca might have pummelled her ex-lover to death with a baseball bat. This possible scenario had been spun with lies told by the ugly harlot sitting in my flat. If Rebecca hadn’t turned up that night then our future together would have been secured. Now Amber threatened to derail my plans.

‘I’ve ordered pizzas.’ I smiled. ‘I don’t cook, as I’m sure you remember. I’ve never felt the need. There’s plenty of money in the bank for fancy restaurants.’

I was holding the paring knife when the pizza boxes arrived, preparing to carefully slit open the sticky seals which bound the boxes together.

‘Actually, Rebecca and I are to be married too. What an amazing coincidence.’

‘Why was she at Mitch’s flat that night? Did you ask her?’ Harpy, nagging and carping. Bitch. I fiddled with the knife, jostling it from one hand to the other, toying with my notions.

‘He’d phoned her. He wanted to clear the air and she felt she owed him a visit. No doubt he was keen to tell her about your engagement.’ I laughed heartily at this point, ripped open the top of my box and speared a slice of pizza with the serrated edge. Amber was right to be afraid. She picked up her black silk gloves, slipped them nervously into her handbag and stood up.

‘I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll head home,’ she said. I didn’t bother to get up. She handed me back her cardboard box. It was actually quite a treat devouring two whole pizzas one after the other.

I hate waste and as I threw the packaging in the bin, I decided that Amber was the biggest waste of all. If she was framing my betrothed for murder, consciously or subconsciously, she needed to be dealt with.

I guessed she knew exactly what she was doing. Jealousy was doubtless her motive.

83

Arthur

Timing is the essence of success; timing and a modicum of fate. Amber’s bizarre pronouncements pushed me, rather sooner than I’d planned, to make my final move on Rebecca.