Food shopping day was one of the highlights of Janice Plum’s week. It gave her the chance to get out of the house, have a chat with the checkout staff, and sometimes, if she was lucky, she would bump into one of her village friends and they would have lunch in the cafeteria together, where they would spend the afternoon having a gossip and putting the world to rights.
There was nothing to rush home for. Both her sons were in school and, despite her husband Martin’s hinting, she didn’t feel inclined to get a part-time job. She had her housework, her Zumba and Facebook to keep her busy, and she wasn’t prepared to give any of that up.
As she pushed her trolley around Sainsbury’s, she had one eye on her list, the other looking out for familiar faces. Although it was only the first week of December, the store was already playing Christmas songs and she drummed her fingers on the handle of the trolley, humming along quietly as she scanned the shelves.
After paying at the checkout, a little disappointed that she hadn’t seen any of her friends, she decided to treat herself to a pot of tea and a mince pie anyway. Her shopping bags in the trolley next to her table, she used the store’s complimentary wifi to log on to her Facebook account, and snapped a picture of the drink and mince pie, uploading it to her profile with the caption, ‘A little treat after my hard workout this morning.’
Truth was she had only managed ten minutes of her Zumba fitness DVD, due to her mother ringing for a chat, but her Facebook friends didn’t know that.
She had a quick skim through her newsfeed, liked a couple of memes and forwarded a chain email offering Christmas hugs, then clicked on to Fern St Clair’s profile. Her old school friend had so far ignored her attempts to contact her by Messenger and WhatsApp, though Janice knew she had read both messages.
Fern had been active on Facebook too, posting a couple of pouty selfies and a man-hating rant that looked vague enough, but would most likely be directed at the married boss she had been sleeping with for the past three years.
Janice liked the post with a sad face and added a comment. ‘Here if you want to talk, hun. Xxx’
As she finished her second cup of tea, she planned out her afternoon. There was no housework left to do and, eager as she was to put the tree up, she knew the boys would be disappointed if she decorated without them. It was Christmas tradition in the Plum household that they always did the tree together.
Janice glanced at the box of hair dye poking out of the top of one of the shopping bags.
She had bought a shade called Cherry Crush. She would be a vivacious redhead for the festive season. Maybe she would colour her hair this afternoon and give Martin a surprise when he came home.
Deciding that’s what she would do, she checked her mince pie photo on Facebook, pleased to see it already had two likes, plus a comment from her friend, Mandy. ‘Go ahead, Janice. You deserve it, babe. Xxx’
Janice liked the comment, replying with a heart emoji, before slipping her phone back into her bag and wheeling her trolley out to the car park. The Wham! song ‘Last Christmas’ was stuck in her head and she hummed it as she clicked her keys at her car and loaded the boot. She had just returned the trolley to the loading bay and was about to climb in the driver’s seat, when she noticed the piece of paper stuck under her front wiper blade.
Frowning, she plucked it up, assuming it was someone having a go at her for parking over the white line. (Hardly her fault. Supermarkets needed to start making the spaces bigger.) Instead of a note, it was an envelope with her name on it, and her insides went cold as she slipped inside the car and closed the door, locking it. She glanced around, but there was no one paying her undue attention.
She quickly ripped the envelope open, knowing from the last two she had received that this one would contain a veiled threat of some kind. She read the words, her mouth dry.
Does Martin know he is married to a murderer?
He will. Soon.
For a moment she couldn’t get her breath, panic clawing at her belly as she reread the note. The mince pie she had eaten was threatening to make its way back up.
The words were more direct than the last two notes she had received. They had all arrived with her name typed on the front, no stamp. They had been hand-delivered and left in places where only she would find them, but this was the first one that named her husband and also the first one that mentioned murder.
Suspiciously, she glanced around again. No one was watching her, the nearby cars all empty. She carefully refolded the note and put it back into the envelope, her hands shaking. She slipped the envelope into her bag, took out her phone and pulled up Fern’s number.
It rang several times before cutting into voicemail, Fern’s husky voice telling her to leave a message.
‘Fern, it’s me, Janice. Look I really need to talk to you. I’ve received another note. Please call me.’ She ended the call, willed her old friend to get in touch.
It had been possible to ignore the first two notes because the threat was vague, possibly even a prank. But this one was different. Whoever had sent it was making a serious accusation.
The worst bit was, it was true.
