How Not To Commit Murder - comedy crime - humorous mystery by Robin Storey Page B

angry at me because I won’t go to a life coach.’
    ‘It’s not just that, you’re so stubborn, you won’t listen to anybody. You think you know it all.’
    ‘That’s not true, I – ’
    ‘I’m tired, I’m not in the mood for an argument.’ She got into bed and burrowed down under the sheets.
    Reuben gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Not in the mood for sex, not in the mood for an argument, you used to be such a fun person.’
    She didn’t reply and in a couple of minutes she was asleep, hunched in a ball with her back to him. Reuben lay awake staring into the darkness. It was the first time she’d rejected his advances. Was it a significant milestone? Did it happen in all marriages? Surely not after two-and-a-half months.
    But at the moment he had a more pressing problem. He wished he’d never set foot in the Edinburgh Arms and that he’d never run into Frank Cornell. Could he pretend he hadn’t, that it was all just a bad dream?
    He saw Lucy lying on the floor of her home, eyes frozen in horror, neck sliced by a deep gash and rivers of blood streaming onto her chest. Or dumped in a dingy alley amongst the industrial bins, as lifeless as an abandoned doll, a gunshot wound to her head. No, damn it, he couldn’t pretend ignorance.
    ***
    When he awoke, he felt as if he’d been churning round all night in a giant washing machine. But at least he’d come to a decision.
    ‘What are you doing today, honey?’ Carlene asked. She was back to her normal self, rifling through her wardrobe for the hundredth time as she tried to decide what to wear to work.
    ‘Just the usual – slay a few dragons, ravish a few maidens, then after breakfast I’ll do the really exciting stuff.’
    ‘Like vacuuming?’
    ‘I was thinking more along the lines of the usual job searching, but vacuuming sounds more fun.’
    Carlene stepped into a black skirt, wiggled it over her hips and zipped it up. Then she turned back to the wardrobe and peered into it again, as if expecting some item of clothing she hadn’t seen before to suddenly manifest itself.
    ‘I’m sure a man of your capabilities could do both in one day,’ she said, slipping on the first blouse she’d taken out of the wardrobe and buttoning it up.
    ‘Oh shit!’ Reuben remembered he’d decided to start jogging today. He bounded out of bed, pulled on shorts and a t-shirt, laced up his joggers, picked up his keys and gave his startled wife a smacking kiss on the lips.
    ‘Going for a run. See you tonight.’
    ‘Can you pick up some steak for dinner?’ she called after him.
    The morning was overcast and a bitter August wind whipped around him. He picked up his pace to stop himself from freezing solid. As he took a circuitous route around the suburban streets, faces peered at him from front yards or from the windows of passing cars. His aching legs and burning lungs diverted his attention from his woolly head. He was now a bona fide member of the panting, red-faced, masochistic fraternity he had disparaged until yesterday when he’d decided to join them. Joggers, he’d always maintained, were ruining their bodies and would end up in middle age with dicky knees and shin splints. And if it were so enjoyable, why did they always look as if someone was shoving a hot poker up their backside?
    As he burst in through his front door and collapsed in a sweaty heap on the bed, he realised that both those points were irrelevant. At this rate he’d die of agony before middle age and having a hot poker shoved up his backside would at this moment be a welcome respite.
    He forced himself off the bed, showered and dressed. Over coffee and toast he considered his decision – if ‘decision’ was the right word. It was a wimpy imitation of a decision, borne not from courage but desperation and cowardice. He had to let Lucy know her life was in danger. But not by telling her outright – which would put his life in danger – and not by giving her enough information to justify her going