Sleeping Cruelty Read Online Free PDF Page B

jogged, showered and breakfasted and had given Mrs Skipper a list of shopping, laundry or dry-cleaning collections. By ten his secretary was installed, the coffee percolating and the newspapers neatly laid out, and Maynard was ready for work, as immaculate and fresh as his small terraced house. Maynard had chosen the house because of its location and politically correct lack of ostentation. William had offered to buy him a larger property, but he had refused point-blank.
    Mrs Skipper had been working for Maynard for the past five years. She knew as little about his private life now as she had when she started, and what she did know she had gleaned from the newspapers: when he took her on, she had signed a confidentiality agreement. He had explained that in his profession it was imperative he could trust those closest to him. As far as she knew, Maynard was a man of unimpeachable character, a young man on the threshold of a glittering political career, which even she could see was about to soar.
    That morning Mrs Skipper picked up the single bottle of skimmed milk left by the milkman and, frowning, noticed that the bedroom curtains were still drawn. She let herself into number twelve. Mr Maynard was always up by this time so that she could make his bed and collect the dirty laundry. She went into the kitchen, which was as she had left it the evening before. This, too, was unusual: he always put his dirty supper dishes into the sink ready for her to rinse and load into the dishwasher. As she put the milk into the fridge, she noticed that the evening meal she had prepared yesterday was still in its tin-foil-covered dish. Mrs Skipper began to unbutton her coat, looking around for the note that was left each day on the kitchen table.
    There was no note. She hung up her coat and fetched her apron, then walked back down the narrow hallway towards the stairs. She looked up, listening, wondering if her employer was upstairs in the bathroom – perhaps something had made him late for his morning jog and he was still out. Maybe he was ill. ‘Mr Maynard?’ she called tentatively.
    The house was eerily silent – she was used to hearing the radio or television news when she came in. She began to mount the stairs, pausing midway to call his name again, but there was no reply.
    His bedroom was dark and the bed had not been slept in. The bathroom door was closed, and a suit, shirt and underwear were laid neatly across the bed. She went back out into the hall and tapped on his study door. It swung open, revealing the tidy desk, a stack of memos and mail lined up by the bank of telephones. She pulled the cord to open the curtains and, in the light, looked at the desk for some kind of sign. A yellow Post-it had been stuck to his blotter with a phone number. His address book was open and another sticker on the open page bore the same number and, underlined, an odd message: ‘Call this number. Do not go into the bathroom.’
    More worried by the minute, Mrs Skipper returned to the kitchen. Now she noticed that the back door was ajar. Sheopened it wide and looked out into the garden, which was empty. Mrs Skipper closed the door and locked it. It was then that she felt the drip of water from the ceiling above. She looked up and listened. Maynard’s bathroom was directly above the kitchen.
    Mrs Skipper went upstairs again and listened at the closed bathroom door. Now she could hear water running softly and, looking down saw the creeping stain growing darker as it seeped into the carpet and edged into the bedroom. She turned the bathroom door handle. It was not locked, and she pushed it open and froze in shock at the sight of Maynard’s body, partly submerged, and his hands, floating, with deep gashes at the wrists from which blood still trailed.
    ‘Call this number. Do not go into the bathroom,’ the yellow note had said, each word heavily underlined. Mrs Skipper moved back into the office, reached for the phone and dialled.

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