The Sweet Scent of Poison

This story contains sensitive content in the form of a murder.

The Sweet Scent of Poison

by

Katie Phillips

It was the perfect murder!

Has everything really gone to plan?

I ran through the checklist one more time in my head as I strode down the gangway of the intercity express to Inverness: the flawlessly forged suicide note, the bottle of poison with the same amount missing as has been consumed, our wedding anniversary. Perfect. With the long night and the bright lights of the city behind me, I opened the window of the empty train compartment. I blinked slowly. I could have sworn a branch on a twisted tree, rooted forever on the platform 5, Glasgow Queen Street station, was pointing at me with its skeleton-like branches. Stop projecting. No one is pointing as you. I forced myself to shake the image out of my mind. Not easy when you’ve done something so terrible. But what other chance did I have?  The train set off so instead, I contemplated the long sleek tracks leading me away from my hometown where I would never feel eternally rooted again. Finally free from the clutches of a cruel, cruel man and the hate for a woman I’ve never even met. The early morning birds echoed the sweet sound of freedom with their innocent chirps.

I took out my book, more for the comfort of holding on to something than trying to find the concentration to read, and remembered the expensive bottle of perfume in my bag. My treat for doing such a good job, even if it had belonged to the woman my husband was cheating on me with. How dare she leave it in our bathroom cabinet? I clasped the small bottle and ran my fingers over the smooth top. My hands began to tremble. My tongue, suddenly so dry, stuck to the roof of my mouth. I stared at the bottle of poison. What have I done? My dead husband is at home clutching a suicide note and a bottle of expensive perfume. How did I switch the bottles after dropping the poison onto his tongue? My eyes fixated on the emergency brake cord. Is it too late to turn back? I felt too weak to stand up and reach it. My temples began to throb.

The door to the compartment thudded as it slid shut. I jumped. Trying to seem calm, I opened my bag again for my phone, but it wasn’t the ticket inspector. A tall slim red-haired woman sat down opposite me. I forced a smile, but she didn’t seem to notice me. She looked as desperate as I felt. What now? What should I do? This is the intercity. We’re not stopping before Inverness. There’s no time to go back. I can’t draw attention to myself by pulling the cord. We both stared silently out of the window.

Time had no meaning, and I couldn’t tell if minutes or hours had passed before she burst into tears.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

I fished around in my bag for some tissues. Without offering any conversation, I gave her the pack.

‘I’ve just found out that my boyfriend is married.’

Say something. Anything. ‘Men!’

‘Too right.’

I let my gaze wander back to the window and the edge of the city which was transitioning to countryside in the hope she would do the same.

‘He told me we had a future.’

‘U-huh.’

Please stop talking. I need to work this out. The cleaner has probably already found him. There’s no going back. I’ll go to Inverness. And then what?

‘I should have known.’ My compartment companion sighed. ‘Five years I’ve given him. Five years I’ve suffered his controlling ways. And for what?’

‘Five years is a long time.’ I knew exactly what she meant. My racing mind being drawn once more into the limited space of the train. ‘I’m going through something similar myself.’ I was surprised to hear my own voice saying these words out loud and hoped she wouldn’t take them as an invitation to pour her heart out.

‘When Bartek and I got together, he was so different. So free, caring, and attentive.’

‘Bartek? Well, that’s not a name you hear every day.

‘I know! Polish mum and Scottish dad. Bartek McCready, my exotic charmer.’

It’s her. You’re her. What should I do now? Where is the next station? When is the next station? I’ve got to get out of here.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Erm. Probably a hot flush.’ I wanted to walk along the gangway, but I just couldn’t help myself. ‘Have you got a photo?’

There he was. My husband, standing outside the Finnieston. The restaurant he would never take me to. Now I know why. Deep breaths. Keep calm. Wow! He really does have a type! Skinny red heads.

‘I’ve got some water if you’d like some.’

She handed me a plastic bottle. As she did, I got a whiff of my no longer favourite perfume.

‘He said we were going away. Ugh­–he still has my passport. He said he needed it to sort out visas for a trip to the States. Now he’s going with his wife.’

Not this one! That’s not what he told me. So, who’s he going with? Or, was he planning on going with?

The train was slowing down. I looked at the time on my phone. This can’t be Inverness. Maybe I can get off here. There’s still no point in going back, but why does it have to be Inverness? No one is expecting me. So yes. Get off at the next stop and wing it. Anywhere outside Glasgow will do.

The door was jolted open. We both reached for our phones.

‘Is the train stopping here?’ I asked as I opened my train ticket app.

‘Yes, but no one can get off at this stop.’

‘Why not?’

The train was already standing still. He checked both our phones and left the compartment and nodded. Two police officers, a man and a woman, entered. I gulped some more water, wishing I could splash it on my face. How did they find me so quickly? My inward breaths were laboriously heavy. I put the base of my hands on my chin with my fingers almost covering my eyes.

‘Izzy Rivers, we need you to come with us.’

I drew breath to speak. Wait. Izzy Who? Who’s that? What now?

‘‘What’s going on?’ my nemesis asked.

‘We are here to arrest you for the murder of Bartek McCready.’

‘Murder? He’s dead? What? How? When?’

The red-haired woman, Izzy, was already pale, but any remaining colour in her cheeks had sunk to her hands, which were shaking. She clasped them together. Her mouth opened to speak and then closed. But not completely.

‘He was found dead in his apartment this morning by the cleaner. Two neighbours have testified to having seen you leave the flat this morning at 6am.’

6am? Had she been in the flat when I was in there? I’m sure I left at 6am. I’m sure the flat was empty. The neighbours must’ve thought I was her. Have they known about her all this time?

‘There was a suicide note which mentioned the poison he allegedly took himself, but the bottle in his hand was perfume. The fingerprints on the bottle match the ones on your passport, which we found in Mr McCready’s briefcase. We tracked your location using your details on his phone. Please come with us now to the station for questioning.’

‘It wasn’t me. I wasn’t there.’

‘I’m afraid it’s your word against theirs and there are two of them. They also told us about the arguments coming from the apartment earlier yesterday. A motive, circumstantial evidence and witnesses are three things not in your favour, Ms Rivers.’

That’s it? I’m free? Free of my cheating husband, free of the woman who stole him and all because of a mistake with the bottles? I tried to stop the grin from reaching up to my eyes.

‘You have to believe me.’ Her voice broke. ‘I didn’t do it.’

‘You need to come with us now, Ms Rivers.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘I still have your water.’ I rummaged in my bag, pretending to look for the water while I took out an alcohol lens wipe from my sunglasses case and rubbed down the poison bottle removing any trace of my involvement.  ‘You’ll need it more than me.’

‘Come on now. Or do we need to put the handcuffs on? You’ll be escorted back to Glasgow where our colleagues who are dealing with this case will question you.’

She stood up, flung her Louis Vuitton backpack over her shoulder and stepped towards the door.

I placed the water in her hand and slipped the vial of poison under the flap of the backpack and released the damming evidence. I released it. It was gone. And so were the last five years of torment.

A different set of police officers in Glasgow means they won’t recognise me from the train. A quick turn around in Inverness will get me back by evening. A fake alibi should be easy. At the very least, the officers will want to inform me of Bartek’s suspicious death.

I watched them leave the platform, put my head back and closed my eyes.