'Happy Christmas,' Hilda called out as the door closed, missing Carol sinking to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks.
No matter how many times she tried to persuade herself that Hilda could be mistaken, she knew it was the truth. He had betrayed her, kept this bitch and the fucking baby a secret. He had lied to her, the bastard had egged her on, teased her with his kisses and smiles.
All over the Christmas break, Carol's fury built. She couldn't eat and hardly slept thinking about how she had been betrayed and how she could make him pay for it, and then she began to feel better as the plan started to take shape. She never took off the bracelet; the jingle of the charms was a constant reminder. It was irritating because the goblin's pointed finger kept sticking in her wrist, like a pinprick, but she even liked that; it kept reminding her of his betrayal.
Christmas came and went and she continued working and behaving normally, smiling and helpful. The arrival of Frogton's baby son created quite a party atmosphere in the surgery, everyone congratulating him and bringing gifts for the little boy. Carol bought a small teddy bear, removing the attached warning: 'Not suitable for small babies' as the eyes were glass and attached by a lethal drawing pin. Secretly she had been fermenting in pain and the arrival of the baby made it worse. At long last she was ready; she would make Peter Frogton pay for his betrayal with his life. She was sure he had bought the fucking bracelet for his whore, she'd probably disliked it, some of the charms were horrible and the gold heart didn't even open.
She left for work at exactly the same time as she usually did. It was only a twenty-minute walk to the clinic and today was an early start. It was always early on Tuesdays and Thursdays as that was when the more complex operations were done. When they were completed, the clinic would open for other business at nine. Mrs Dart the cleaner wasn't given keys, so Carol had to let her in.
Carol had spent weeks preparing for this morning. It was imperative that she was above suspicion. By this time Carol had a rudimentary knowledge of the sedatives used for the animals and she had decided to soak a rag in halothane, as well as lacing Frogton's morning coffee with the Halcyon tablets she had been prescribed for insomnia. In preparation, Carol had been stealing small amounts of halothane from the cabinet for weeks.
Carol had specifically chosen this morning, as there was a Dalmatian, a Rottweiler and a Jack Russell to be put to sleep. The veterinary mortuary van would call for the collection of the animals' carcasses before surgery. The animals would be placed in heavy black plastic bags with their weight and a description attached and then carried on a small gurney to the rear entrance, ready to be driven to the incinerator. There were occasionally grieving owners who asked for their pet's ashes but Carol knew the three that morning had no owner's requests. She was safe, and she had already made an excellent copy of the death certificate for a Great Dane called Felix who had been put to sleep a month earlier. There would be four bodies removed to the incinerator from the Miles and Frogton Veterinary clinic: three canines and one human.
The careful planning of the murder had given Carol a strength of will she never realized she had. She was sure there was no hint of her turmoil, her fury or her pain. She was certain that no one guessed her intentions, least of all Peter Frogton. She was just as certain that she was going to get away with it. It was all in the planning and she had spent night after night making lists, destroying them, only to begin another the next night until she knew everything by heart.
Walk to work.
Open surgery, check operation room.
Prepare Peter Frogton's coffee.
Present morning operations.
Brew fresh coffee, wash out Frogton's mug.
Wait for the drugs to take effect.
Cover his mouth with the soaked rag.
Prepare animals for mortuary.
Kill Peter Frogton.
Place his body in mortuary bag.
Open rear door.
Place bags on gurney.
Re-lock the back door.
Open mail.
Let in Mrs Dart.
Get ready for morning surgery.
Let out Mrs Dart.
Open front door ready for morning surgery.
The lie she would tell Hilda had changed a few times. First Peter had been taken ill, then he had been called away on an emergency, then he had given her the perfect reason for him not being there. As he was now a proud father and had not taken time off at Christmas, he and his 'whore' were going on holiday. The bitch had already left for their rented villa. Frogton had arranged to leave straight after surgery; it was perfect. The practice would be run in his absence by Miles Richards. The fact that Frogton was not returning, not ever, would therefore not become an issue for two weeks and she had booked her own two-week vacation to begin during Frogton's absence. Even if the police were called, they would find no motive, no evidence. Peter Frogton had just disappeared off the face of the earth. Carol had even watched a television documentary detailing just how many people do disappear without trace and the amount was astonishing. She also watched all the television cop shows and knew it was imperative she leave no trace of what had happened, so cleaning up had to be done very methodically.
Carol was on hand for the disposal of the two large dogs and Frogton helped her carry them to the rear door for collection. He was tired, complaining of being kept up all night by his new baby, and couldn't wait to get away. She watched as he sipped his coffee; he didn't even taste the Halcyon. The small Jack Russell was carried from his cage. He had been sedated during the night but there was little hope that he would recover, so he was quickly injected and died peacefully on the table. Frogton was removing his rubber gloves ready to scrub and wash his hands at the sink; as he bent forwards he stumbled and then held on to the sink with his hands, leaning forwards.
'Christ, I feel terrible,' he muttered.
Carol moved behind him with the hammer. She hit him on the back of his skull, hard. He gasped, turned towards her, his face registering total shock, even more so when he saw her draw back her hand with the hammer ready for another strike. He made a grab for her wrist but she kicked him to his knees and she hit him again on the side of his temple. She then dragged his body to lie face forwards and covered his gasping mouth with the rag soaked in halothane; he gasped a few times, then lay still. She'd used the entire contents of two phials – one would have been enough but she wanted to make sure, very sure, he was dead. She had to wait fifteen minutes, her hand pressed to his throat, a towel left over his face. Feeling for his pulse and satisfied he was dead, she stripped off his clothes; first his blue tunic, then his T-shirt and trousers, his socks, shoes and underpants. She placed everything carefully into a carrier bag, then she bent over his naked body and tied his hands behind his back, looping the rope round his ankles and drawing his legs almost back to his arms. She then rolled his body over and began to ease the thick black bag round him, securing it at the top. For safety she wrapped a second bag round him, this she tied with strong thick string, and then attached the label. 'Great Dane. FELIX, aged ten years. Owner Mrs Thompson,' and the address. She dragged the bag to the back door and propped it up beside the two other dead animals.
Carol was sweating as she returned to the table to lift the Jack Russell's corpse and stuff it into the black bag ready for collection. She froze when the doorbell rang and rang; whoever it was kept their hand on the bell. Carol took deep breaths, wiped her face and straightened out her uniform.
The woman was peering into the surgery, her hands cupped to see inside. Carol faced her.