Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1 by Sue Nicholls (top e book reader TXT) 📗

Anwen placed their two drinks on the table and sat, wondering how to approach what she wanted to say. With her hot mug between her palms, she said, ‘Kitty was helpful about the computer yesterday, I’m set up on all the things I wanted to be…’

‘That’s good.’ Cerys took a sip and flapped her magazine to cool her shiny face. ‘I shouldn’t have asked for tea. It makes me so hot.’

Anwen hurried on, ‘And she’s offered me a cleaning job.’

Cerys’s eyebrows shot into her fringe. ‘Really? Cleaning eh?’

‘Yes. two hours a week for ten pounds an hour.’

Cerys looked as if she was about to object, but when she heard the rate of pay she grinned. ‘That’s nice. You’ll soon be rich.’

‘Sis?’ Anwen ventured.

‘Yes?’

‘Kitty was telling me about her mam being murdered, like.’

Cerys sat up straight. ‘Murdered?’

At the astonished look on her sister’s face, Anwen faltered. ‘That’s what she said. Didn’t you know?’

Cerys stared for several seconds before replying in a tone that brooked no questions, ‘No, I didn’t.’

They sat for a while, and Anwen repressed her urge to reveal the other things she had discovered about the released convict. ‘Are you OK?’

Cerys sipped, with her eyes fixed on the wall behind Anwen. ‘I’m fine.’

~~~

Through the modern walls and floors of their house, Anwen listened to Cerys and Paul’s raised voices. Sitting in the middle of her bed, with her arms around her knees, the girl blamed herself for this falling out. She worried that it might end her sister’s relationship with Paul, and then what would happen? But outweighing her anxiety was Anwen’s longing to learn more of this fascinating story. She strained her ears for information about Kitty’s mother and gathered that her name was Fee. After divorcing Paul, she remarried. Anwen already knew from the internet that the husband’s name was Max Owen-Rutherford, and this was the person who pushed her off a cliff on their honeymoon in Mauritius. What a story!

Downstairs, in the living room, Paul was yelling at Cerys. ‘I didn’t want to talk about it. It was a terrible time. The police thought I’d killed her.’ Anwen cringed as he bellowed, ‘Why would I tell you? If I had, would you have wanted anything to do with me?’

‘So, you would have married me without mentioning it?’ Cerys’s voice was harsh and high, and Anwen pictured her with those knuckles on her hips again and her chin thrust at Paul. ‘That’s a fine way to start married life. And with this on the way.’ The lounge door slammed, and Cerys’s footsteps banged up the stairs. Then her bedroom door slammed shut and there was silence.

Anwen once again Googled ‘Paul Thomas’ and ‘murder’ and examined the picture of Max Owen-Rutherford. He was referred to in the article as Max Owen. He was a handsome man; fair-haired with an open, intelligent smile. It was easy to see how Fee might have fallen for him. He did not look at all like a murderer.

Anwen experienced a sense of unease, a feeling that she was sticking her nose where it should not be. She closed the page and as she did so, the stairs creaked - Paul coming up. His feet padded along the landing, then the bedroom door opened and closed quietly.

34 ANWEN

On Friday afternoon, Anwen let herself into Kitty’s flat with a newly cut key. Apart from the hum of the fridge and the drone of traffic on the road below, the place was silent. She dropped her coat and bag onto an armchair and went into the kitchen. In the sink, breakfast things were soaking in cold, scummy water. Kitty had eaten porridge with honey and drunk, Anwen sniffed a cup, tea maybe? She found the Earl Grey tea packet and put it to her nose with distaste. Yes, that was it.

In the bedroom, the double bed was a tumble of duvet and pillows, with a white cotton vest and soft pyjama-trousers thrown across the top. Anwen stood inside the door and appraised her surroundings. It was a sizeable room. She measured it: three strides one way and four the other. There was plenty of space for a laundry basket, two bedside tables with tissues, books and the wire lead for an iPad or phone. Against one wall stood a vast mahogany wardrobe. Anwen opened its double doors and riffled her hands across Kitty’s sparse collection of garments: Two sets of leathers, one scarlet and the other black. A black woollen skirt, jeans and a casual jacket. On the wooden bottom were a pair of biker-boots and a pair of flat ballet style shoes. Shelves held four tee-shirts and two hoodies. Kitty had even fewer clothes than Anwen.

The shower cubicle was still wet, and Anwen leaned across the basin to open the window. The supermarket branded shower gel and hair products, and a toothbrush and toothpaste tube in a plastic beaker on the ledge of the sink, were disappointing. Such commonplace toiletries did not fit with Kitty’s glamorous job.

On the dining table in the living room, the scattered papers from her previous visit had been neatened into a rough pile. Guilty and thrilled, she flipped through them. There was a spreadsheet of printed comments and additional handwritten notes at the bottom and she pulled it out, careful not to mess up the other papers. Kitty would have sat on this chair, carefully cross-checking data - or perhaps she sat on the sofa with the bundle of papers beside her and her laptop on her knees. Anwen lowered herself onto the chair and ran her eyes over the document. It must be about the case that Kitty had told her about. One remark on the page said: Paul spoiled Kitty’s party.