Bev Heapy
WHEN Martin, owner of the village pub, went to pick up his children for the weekend, his ex wife, Sandra, told him they were emigrating to Australia with her partner, Mike. They lived in a bungalow in the same village as Martin and he saw his boys all the time.
Martin was devastated. He couldn't let this happen.
He knew Sandra would be alone that night, Mike was at a stag do, so after closing time, he made sure the children were asleep, then slipped out and made his way to Sandra's.
As quietly as he could, Martin forced open the back door, left his trainers in the kitchen, and putting on gloves, crept towards the bedroom.
The knife entered Sandra's chest with ease.
Martin trashed the bungalow to make it look like a robbery.
Finally finished, Martin walked into the kitchen, and in the gloom was horrified to see Sandra's body slumped on the floor. He hadn't killed her. Anxiously, Martin felt for a pulse. She was dead. With the house still in darkness, he changed his blood stained clothes, dropped them into a bag, put on his trainers, and left.
Martin was on his third pint when there was a knock at the door. 'Can I come in Martin?' DS Smith enquired. 'Course you can John. Sit down and I'll pull you a pint.' Martin flicked on the lights as he came from the back of the bar. 'I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.'
'Mike found Sandra's body when he came back. Good job the children were here with you.'
He'd had to go to extreme lengths to make sure his boys would always be with him. It was worth it. This was the best day of his life!
Happy now, he clinked glasses with DS Smith and lifted the pint of Theakston's Old Peculiar to his lips; then, just as he was about to drink, he saw the direction of the policeman's gaze and realised that there was a dark patch of blood on the toe of his left trainer.
