In the Carpark

British English spelling and grammar.

This is the sanitised version of a previous entry which was taken down for being too violent. Sorry.

***

In the carpark

Pete was reading the evening newspaper, watching Sylvia from the corner of his eye. Dinner was almost ready and she was just returning from the downstairs toilet. 'Spending a penny' as she would put it. She stopped at the dining table, which Pete had laid for two, where she straightened a knife, rotated the centrepiece of flowers, and continued to the kitchen. He smiled. She didn't even know she'd done it.

The fact was, Sylvia was borderline OCD. She was unaware of her little traits and habits, but Pete noticed them with amusement. And he wasn't about to tell her; after all, knowledge is power. He'd also noticed that when she told a lie, or was feeling under pressure, the thumb of her right hand would rub between her fingers; as if she was trying to clean something out of the gaps. If a phrase was needed to describe him, it would be 'people watcher'. He observed everybody, while keeping his own 'tells' well under control.

They had been married three years; comfortable together, but not getting stale or taking each other for granted. And their sex life was still exciting. Anal sex was the only area where she had drawn the line. Pete was disappointed, but could live with it. It surprised him though, because Sylvia had been the one who suggested involving another man. How would he like to watch her having sex with someone else? Perhaps join in for a threesome? Pete was surprised; he thought it was usually the man who brought up that kind of thing. Also, if anal had been part of her repertoire, taking on two guys would give her more scope. He'd told her he understood men's desires to be voyeurs, and that many would love to see their wives getting srviced by another man, but he didn't think that scene was for him.

He had inherited their house from his parents and he and Sylvia had discussed a pre nuptial agreement that would prevent her from owning it if she ever strayed. But he sensed she was reluctant and ditched the idea. They made a pact to be faithful and trust each other. And both hinted at unpleasant consequences should that promise ever get broken. For the time being, they were settled in their jobs and planned on starting a family next year. Their sex life was great, so there was no need to be thinking of affairs.

Pete had started to write a crime story. He didn't have writer's block as such, but tended to bash away at it in a piecemeal fashion. And he spent far more time researching, and jotting down notes on paper, than he did actually writing on his computer. It would probably never be published, and he thought it was developing nicely. But what it needed was a far more disciplined approach. So he ditched his darts nights at the pub.

It had previously been their practice to go out separately on a Wednesday night. Sylvia going to Emilio's wine bar with her girlfriends, and Pete playing darts at his local pub. But recently he'd been forced to admit he wasn't very good at the game, so had no problem giving it up. It wasn't as if the team would miss him; there were plenty of guys who would want his slot on the team. Now, he could research any time he wanted, and make all the notes he liked, but Wednesday would be his writing night. There was nothing interesting on tv anyway. And the novel was taking shape.

One Wednesday, Sylvia was getting ready to go out and Pete turned the tv off. He would probably write straight through till eleven, the time she got home. He couldn't concentrate for more than about four hours anyway. His serial killer was about to attack the next victim. He opened the novel and began, but immediately stopped. There were some notes upstairs in his jacket pocket. He preferred to write random ideas on paper as and when they occurred, rather than mess about entering things in his phone. Recently he'd been checking on how to steal a car. He went into the bedroom and heard Sylvia humming in the shower.

He looked at their bed and almost laughed out loud... classic OCD! She'd laid her clothes out on the bed, in the order she would put them on. On the corner nearest the bathroom was a pair of white cotton panties. They were lying with the waistband nearest the edge so she could pick them up and step straight in. To the right were the flesh-coloured tights, also ready to put on. Then a white bra, which matched her knickers of course, a lemon coloured blouse, and a pleated black skirt. To the right of that, peeking out from under the bed was a pair of black shoes. Finally, draped across her pillow, a black jacket.

Pete wondered what her reaction would be, if he changed the order. Obviously she'd notice, but would she laugh, or get annoyed? Then he had a better idea. He picked up the panties and turned them inside out. Back in their designated position, you could hardly tell the difference. His mother had always told him that if you find your underwear is on inside out, it's bad luck to change it; you must leave it as it is. Sylvia might just put them on. Or spot the mistake and turn them out the right way. But would she think they'd come out of her drawer like that, or guess he was playing tricks? He grabbed his notes and went back to his story.

His killer was waiting in the stolen car; the carpark was dimly lit and almost empty. Pete was using the nearby Rosebush carpark as his model for this part of the tale. He found it easier to develop it, if he could imagine the location. His killer was deliberately nondescript and mysterious; no need for the reader to have a description of someone the police had not seen yet. But the locations, and supporting characters, he preferred to have clear idea of what they looked like.

He'd once seen a movie called Monster. It was based on the life of Aileen Wuornos, an American prostitute who had become a serial killer. Pete's story was set in England where female serial killers were quite rare. Off-hand he could only think of Rosemary West and Myra Hindley. So the police were on completely the wrong track. Conventional wisdom said a serial killer was probably a man, but Pete's was a woman. His murderer was not based on anyone in particular; just a fictitious woman who'd been raped as a teenager and learned how to hate men. She had a private income and could move around the country at will. Currently the police thought their killer was a male travelling sales rep.

Pete's choice for her next victim was well defined. He was a married man who thought he was seducing her; not realising he was the hunted, rather than the hunter. He was based on Mr Wilcox, a handsome man who ran the nearby gift shop. Also married, he had a reputation as a player. Pete knew he was always the last person to return to Rosebush carpark at the end of the day. The carpark in his novel had been renamed Cherrytree, and the man about to die was a Mr Wilkinson. He had a Ford Mondeo, just like the real Mr Wilcox.

The real Rosebush carpark was quite unusual. It served a small supermarket and a cluster of little shops. The barrier came down at six am, and after that you had to pay to enter. Only a nominal fifty pence, but the guy who ran the paper shop arrived at five to six each morning, to avoid the charge. Well, he did open at six thirty. Other people came and went throughout the day, and the barrier ascended again at six pm; then it was free till morning. By six thirty in the evening the place was as dead as a doornail. The shops, including the supermarket, were all closed. And there was no nightlife up that end of town. The lights were not maintained as the council intended to close it next year and sell it to a property developer. Sometimes after dark, a car would go to the far end. Then it would rock to the rhythms of youngsters, or adulterous spouses.

So Pete's fictitious supermarket also closed at six thirty and Mr Wilkinson's gift shop soon after. He opened later in the morning than the other shops as nobody bought souvenirs early in the day, so was usually the last to leave. Truth to tell, nobody bought much during the day either; he was thinking of selling up. He strode out to his Ford Mondeo, blissfully unaware he was soon to be murdered. Pete planned for him to meet his untimely death under Cherrytree's last remaining lamp.

When Sylvia was ready to go she would usually come up behind Pete and kiss him goodbye. But tonight he stopped mid-sentence and jumped up to escort her to the front door.

"What a gentleman!" she said. "What brought this on?"

"Oh, nothing." he replied. "I'm just feeling romantic."

He swung her round till her back was to the full length mirror next to the door. Then kissed her, holding her close and lifting her skirt at the back.

"Nice arse, Mrs Nightingale." he said, squeezing it and admiring the reflection.

"Put me down you brute! Now I have to check my makeup again. And that was lust, not romance."

"You're right!" he said, grinning. "I was just showing you what lust is like. Then if some chancer does something like this tonight, you'll know it's time to slap his face."

"As if! There are no chancers at Emilio's." she countered.

A horn beeped outside.

"Taxi's here." she said and broke away.

Pete returned to his murder, still grinning. Her knickers were on inside out! The dark seam of her tights perfectly bisected her cotton-clad buttocks, and split the Marks and Spencer label which was now on the outside.

*** *** ***

The killer checked the carpark was empty and waited till Mr Wilkinson reached his car. He always parked as close as he could to the last working lamp, so he'd be able to see to unlock. As he did so, the stolen car shot forward, swinging round to make contact with him side on. It was a perfect hit. His arm was reaching into the Mondeo, and was almost severed when the driver's door slammed shut on it. He was smashed up against his car and his pelvis shattered. He never even had time to scream, and slumped to floor dying.

She backed up and got out to look at him; he was near death. Previous victims had met their makers by different methods, and the police were only linking three out of four of them.

"You won't be using that hand to grope up women's sjirts any more." she told him.

Mr Wilkinson didn't answer. She returned the car to its spot under the trees, where she would leave it. No need for the police to hunt for the murder weapon - here it was in plain sight. Not a trace of her in it of course. Then she retrieved her Kawasaki ZX from a nearby side road. As she thundered back past Cherrytree carpark, there was still no sign of activity. In the unlikely event there was a witness, they would give the police a vague description. They'd possibly seen a young man, officer, tall and slim. He was wearing biker leathers, including gauntlets and boots, and a full-face crash helmet. Men rode motorbikes, so they'd be looking for a man again. Later she swapped its fake number plate for the real one.

*** *** ***

Sylvia got home just before eleven and declared she was knackered, her word for drunk, and was going straight up. Often, she would take sleeping tablets during the week. She's had insomnia problems for years. But tonight she was out like a light when Pete got to the bedroom. There was no sign of any clothing; even completely wasted she would hang up the jacket, skirt and blouse. Her tidiness fetish was automatic, and usually unaffected by alcohol. Pete undressed and dumped his clothes on the bedside chair. Once he'd got his pyjamas on, he took his underpants and socks into the bathroom and dropped them on top of the laundry basket. He brushed his teeth and was on the point of leaving when they caught his eye. He sighed and lifted the lid. He'd be getting as obsessive as her, next. As he dropped them into the hamper he noticed her bra was in there; but not her panties.

Pete shrugged, turned out the bathroom light and slipped into bed. He snuggled up to Sylvia and hugged her. She was facing him and put her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. She smelled of gin and tonic, and toothpaste. He couldn't see the logic of that. Surely if you spent the night in a wine bar, you'd split bottles of wine with your girlfriends? Emilio's might be a bit pricey, but it did a good deal on whole bottles. Women!

He nuzzled into her neck and kissed her. Sylvia seemed to respond and made an encouraging 'mmm' noise. If he went at this gently she might just wake up enough for a quickie. She was wearing a very old T-shirt that made the bold claim that Sylvia, against all logic, had shot JR. He ran his hand under it and stroked the smooth skin of her back. Then slid it down to he bottom. She was still wearing her knickers. When she wasn't dressing up in sexy nightwear, she usually came to bed with old cotton shorts, or nothing at all. She must have been pretty drunk to get into bed wearing the same panties she'd gone out in. She always claimed it was unhygienic to keep them on all night. Pete managed to get one hand under and squeezed her arse. But she grunted, turned away from him, and pulled the duvet round herself. It didn't matter; his mood had changed anyway. He'd felt the panties' label just before she'd turned. And it was on the inside! Where it should be, but not where it had started.

It was always possible she had gone to the wine bar's toilet and spotted the problem. Would she have changed them> No, emove her shoes, tights and knickers - just to turn them the right way out? Pete didn't think so. Far more likely that she had taken her underwear off for some other purpose, and automatically put them back on the right way round. No prizes for guessing what that other purpose might be. Knowing he would not be able to sleep now, he took her mobile phone off the bedside cabinet and went downstairs. He sat on the settee and scrolled through her messages. There were about forty but three stood out. There was one dated late tonight from Cynthia, who he knew vaguely. It said 'Not seen you for a while, everything ok?' Sylvia's reply was 'Been a bit off colour. CU soon.' Not incriminating in itself, except she hadn't been ill. And that meshed with another suspicious contact, GF; which was completely empty. So, if GF was her girlfriends' group, she'd deleted everything in and out. And if Cynthia was one of those girlfriends, and hadn't seen Sylvia for a while, perhaps none of them had either. She'd probably intended to delete Cynthia's message, and her reply, but got drunk and forgotten.

Even more tantalising was GE, just above it, which was also empty. Worst case scenario: she was skipping her girls' night out, and having an affair with someone called GE. And deleting everything to and from her girlfriends, because there'd be lots of incriminating 'Haven't seen you at Emilio's recently.' Also deleting everything to and from her lover, GE. Pete felt he was close to knowing the what and when. Perhaps tracking down the who and where, would confirm things. He went back to bed.

Thursday morning he kept it casual.

"Few too many last night?"

"Yes, it happens sometimes. Don't worry, I'm ok to drive to work."

"Usual crowd of girls at Emilio's?"

"Yes."

Sylvia was perfectly calm and clear, but her thumb was foraging between her fingers. She was lying.

Pete did his best thinking when he was out, so that evening he decided to walk to the riverbank.

"Just popping out for some air Sylv. I've got a headache coming on."

It was a popular spot on a summer's evening, and there were a lot of cars parked near the river. Pete emptied his mind and strolled towards the water. Then he turned towards the hotel, to cut back to the road. Time to go home. A Ford Mondeo pulled into the hotel carpark. Was there about to be another murder, like in his novel? The woman driver parked under the awning, got out, and put a heavy case on the floor. Another car pulled up behind the Mondeo and the doorman offered to wheel it in, while she moved her car out of the way. She parked in a space near Pete, and he watched her stride back to the hotel. 'Another nice arse' he thought, comparing it to Sylvia's. He thought the doorman also stole a quick peek as she entered. Pete looked up at the hotel facade as he turned away. Grand Emperor; GE. Could this be the one on her phone? Had Sylvia entered the initials of the hotel where she met her lover, rather than his name? Now that would be clever.

He knocked off early on Friday, and went back to the hotel. It was used as a businessman's hotel during the week. The riverbank was pleasant, but this was hardly a tourist town, so it was quiet at weekends. He walked in and spotted someone; the girl on reception was a part-time barmaid at the Pen and Parchment, a nearby pub.

"Hi. Haven't I seen you behind the bar at the Pen?"

She gave him her best smile.

"Yes. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't let on. I only work a weekday shift here. My pub job is cash in hand."

"Don't worry. The taxman is no friend of mine."

"Thanks. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes. I want to put a little business proposition to you. Nothing sleazy. But it would also be cash in hand."

Pete spent five minutes convincing the girl he was on the up and up, and not some kind of creep.

"So, dinner tonight at Den's Diner."

"OK."

"Your nametag says Claire, and I'm Pete. Six o'clock then. Come straight from here, and I'll meet you at Den's. That way you don't have to tell me where you live, or even give me your phone number."

He'd deliberately picked a low key venue. It was a level up from McDonalds, but only just.

"Fair enough. And don't ask to walk me home afterwards."

He called Sylvia, and said he'd be late, in before eight, and he would already have eaten. Claire joined him. She'd discarded the uniform jacket and replaced it with a well washed cotton fleece. This girl was not well off; and still looked nervous. She put her mobile phone on the table.

"Got a camera on that? Pete asked.

"Yes."

He slid something towards her.

"Take a photo of me. Then one of that."

She relaxed and took the photos. Pete put his driving licence back in has wallet.

There was no wine menu in Den's Diner, but they had a bottle of Budweiser each and she relaxed even more. After they'd ordered, he told her he was married and suspected his wife was having an affair. She started paying closer attention, and revealed her own mother had had an affair and broken the family up. Claire herself was recently divorced because her husband had done the same thing. Of course, Pete was sorry to hear about this, but secretly delighted she'd come over to his side so quickly.

"All I really want to know is are they doing it at your hotel? And if so, who the guy is."

"You realise I'm not really supposed to give you that information. I have debts to pay so I need that job. I could lose it if I got caught."

"How about this then? On Monday, check on your Wednesday evening bookings, to see if the same name keeps cropping up; especially if you know he doesn't stay the night. If it does, call me and I'll pop round. Perhaps you could just turn your computer screen towards me, so I can take a photo. That way, you don't actually tell me anything."

He passed her fifty pounds.

"I said I would treat you to this meal; perhaps you could pay the bill with this. Keep the change and there'll be more if I find my guy."

She took the money.

"Thanks. I can do that for you, but not on Monday. We're rushed off our feet with people checking in. Let's walk back to the hotel. It'll be quiet now."

Dinner was better than Pete expected, and their chat was very natural once his business was dealt with.

They returned to the Grand Emperor's reception fortyfive minutes later. Claire said 'Hi Pat, won't be a minute' to the girl working there. She went round the counter and turned on her screen.