Page 3 of Wanting Daisy Dead

Maddie Parr, Daisy’s Housemate and Friend

I think it’s a birthday card; I didn’t get a single one this year on the actual day. My birthdays have been pretty solitary since Mum died, not that they were anything exciting before, just me and Mum with a candle in a Mr Kipling cupcake.

I open the thick white envelope, wondering who it can be from.

I only moved here a few weeks ago – I don’t know anyone here.

Oh Christ, it’s not one of the weirdos I’ve met through work, is it?

I wonder if I should even open it, or take it straight round to the police station.

I’ve had stuff like this before, and it’s really unnerving when you live alone to know someone’s been hanging around your door.

But as I slip the card from the envelope, I see her face and I can’t help it – I drop the card like it’s infectious. It lands on the kitchen floor, and now she’s staring up at me, blaming, judging, taunting. I can’t bear it. Who could possibly have put this through the door? And why?

With trembling hands I pick the card up and lean against the kitchen island for support. I open it, skim the words inside, and my blood turns to ice. An invite to Daisy’s would-have-been fortieth? A birthday weekend for a dead person? Who does that?

I’m not going– it would be weird and horrible – but as I read on, I can’t believe this is happening ...

We know why you wanted Daisy dead – and if you aren’t at her party, everyone else will know too.

Love From

The Killer Question Podcast

Somebody knows ... and now I’m really scared.

My whole body starts to shake as I realise that, after all these years of hiding, running away – someone knows what I did to Daisy.

And now the horrible mess has caught the eye of some thirsty podcaster looking for a hit and planning a ‘birthday weekend’.

I immediately call Alex. He’ll know all about this podcast, I’m sure; he’s a computer nerd, and an expert on digital and streaming and stuff.

I’m pretty good myself, but not like Alex.

He brought my computer back to life over the phone all the way from San Jose once.

I had to tell him not to look at my files, told him my work stuff was extremely confidential – well, it is.

‘Hey Alex,’ I say as he picks up.

‘Morning, gorgeous.’

‘It’s early evening here. You okay?’

‘I’m good, babe.’

‘Did you get an invite to Daisy’s birthday weekend?’

‘Yeah. What do you make of it?’

I take a deep breath. ‘I think it’s a bit sick.’ I’m terrified, but I can’t tell Alex that.

‘Yeah. You are going, aren’t you, Madds?’

‘No, I can’t. I’m busy. You?’

‘But I thought we all have to go ...?’

‘They can’t force us. It’s a podcast, not the police, Alex!’

I’m intrigued that he says we ‘have’ to go. Makes me wonder if his invite also includes a threat if he doesn’t turn up.

‘The wording is a bit weird, isn’t it?’ I offer, to see if I can tease it out of him and confirm whether he’s going because he’s scared something will be revealed.

‘It’s pretty straightforward to me. There’s a party and you have to go.’

My stomach drops. ‘What do you mean, I have to go?’

‘Because it’ll be a laugh and I’m going. It’s our chance to see each other ... and ... Maddie, if they’re doing a special podcast all about Daisy, it’ll look bad if you don’t go.’

I groan inwardly at this. He’s right. If I don’t attend, I’ll look mean and uncaring – or worse. And if they make good on their threat, my life could be over.

‘It’s no coincidence that her murderer killed himself recently and now the podcast is sniffing around,’ I say.

‘I read that he used his own bed sheet to kill himself slowly. His cellmate was sleeping, happened in the middle of the night. The guy in the other bunk woke up and found him.’

‘Ugh. I know. It’s awful, Alex, but I can’t feel sorry for him. He killed Daisy.’

‘He never confessed, even in his suicide note.’

‘He didn’t need to confess, the blood was all over his hammer, along with his fingerprints.’

‘Yeah, but his fingerprints would be on his hammer. Presumably he used it to hammer things.’

‘Yes, he did. He hammered Daisy.’ I cringe in horror at what I’ve just said. I have this image of what her body must have looked like, battered and bloody, lying there undiscovered for a week.

‘He had another appeal coming up. You’d think he’d have waited until after to check himself out, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yeah, but he was guilty, and maybe the prospect of returning to a world where everyone knew he was a killer was too much?’

‘I guess.’

‘So, do you know anything about this Killer Question podcast?’

‘Yeah, a bit. The podcast is true crime, but the difference is that they aim to get innocent people out of jail, and they do this over a series of episodes. So they question everyone connected with the case, the family and friends of the prisoner, and, if they can, they interview people connected to the victim too – it helps give a fair account of the story – and they sometimes get access to police files. So, while they’re sifting through the evidence to do that, they also play detective, to try and find out who really did it. ’

‘Ugh, not armchair detectives?’ My heart sinks at this.

‘Yeah, kind of, but they’re good. I think it’s two sisters – the main host is a lawyer, and the other one is in TV and radio production or something like that.’

‘I knew you’d know everything about it – even the hosts’ life stories,’ I tease.

‘Not really. I happened to see an interview with them on YouTube. They basically combined their two careers and started a podcast. They don’t always “get their man”, but the success rate is pretty good, I think. They have a huge following – more than two million.’

I feel sick. Two million followers? I can only dream of that.

‘Yeah, they’ve worked with famous cases. They got that guy they called the Southend Serial Killer out of prison.’

‘Oh, them ? Yeah, I read about that.’ Now I’m really worried. ‘Wasn’t it his twin brother who was the real killer?’

‘That’s right. And he let his brother take the rap, until the podcasters started looking into it. Fascinating because, being twins, they had the same DNA. Anyway, the podcast know what they’re doing – they drop weekly episodes and the occasional Killer Question weekend, a more extended podcast.’

‘And that’s what this Daisy birthday weekend is?’

‘That’s my guess. I presume they think David was innocent, and they want to find out who really killed Daisy.’

‘Bit pointless. Everyone knows he did it.’

‘I guess they’re doing it for the family. He had kids, you know?’

‘I heard his wife left the country, took the kids with her. Their dad was a murderer – I doubt they care about his name .’

‘Who knows?’ Alex pauses. ‘So, go on, go to the weekend. I’m coming all the way from the US, and you’re nearer to Exeter than I am.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

We say our goodbyes, and as I hang up I realise I might have no choice.

If The Killer Question has more than two million listeners, as Alex reckons, I can’t take the chance of anything being said about me.

At least if I’m there I’ll be able to stand up for myself, even if I have to hide some of the truth.

But why is Alex coming all the way from San Jose?

I’m always suggesting he visits the UK, and he knows he can stay with me, but he says he can’t leave his company.

Did he get the same message as me on his invite?

Is he scared of what might come out if he doesn’t turn up? Did Alex want Daisy dead too?

I know they had their ups and downs, and he was always lending her money – quite a bit of money, as I recall.

But, more importantly for me, if he has had the same message, then whoever’s running this podcast isn’t just focusing on me.

They might be bluffing and sending these messages to all of us, trying to smoke the killer out .

.. At this prospect, relief floods through me – and regret too.

I should never have got involved with Daisy Harrington.

Her death ruined my life, and robbed me of my future.

I never finished my degree; I couldn’t stay at university after what happened.

I was too scared – we all were, for different reasons.

But they all stayed on, and presumably moved on?

I couldn’t face it, and went travelling for a while.

But that didn’t work out, so I came home, and erased myself from my own life.

‘You’ll be famous one day,’ Mum used to say.

I dreamed of being a dancer, then later an actress.

I wanted fame, I guess, and I also wanted a life away from mine and Mum’s bedsit with the damp walls and dodgy gas heater.

I used to imagine myself living in a big Victorian house in London and starring in West End theatre productions.

But, instead, I’m almost forty and living in a new-build on a housing estate, starring in a warped version of my own sad life.

But I shouldn’t complain. I have no mortgage, can work from home, and I earn in a month what most people earn in a year.

The other nice thing is, I work alone – except for my cat, Minty.

I love having another heartbeat in the house.

Living and working alone with just a white Persian for company may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but to me it’s heaven. Because hell is other people.

It isn’t the life I would have chosen for myself. I don’t have friends, as they ask too many questions, and these days just the idea of leaving the house scares me.

Daisy’s death affected all of us, but I imagine the others have their distractions.

And at least they were able to stay on and finish their studies.

Lauren cried a lot at the funeral, but she still managed to go back to her course, write a book and become this big hot shot.

And Georgie has two kids – I can’t remember how I know that, I think Alex told me.

Yeah, they all cried for Daisy, said how much they loved her, but they still carried on with their lives.

I couldn’t. I never found love, never wanted children – I was too broken.

I guess we’re all different, and we reacted in different ways.

The trauma wasn’t helped by all the attention we received at the time.

We were young, and I’ll admit strangely flattered that these newspapers and TV programmes wanted our stories.

What did we think about Daisy? Was she kind, talented .

.. promiscuous? They asked all kinds of questions, and we gave our opinions, our different perceptions of who she was.

Daisy was seeing more than one person when she died, but I never told anyone. Daisy told me not to.

I feel a binge coming on, and try to remember what my therapist said. I have to ask myself why, what, who?

Why do I want to binge? What is drawing me to the saltiness of a pack of cold butter on a loaf of hot toast? And who is causing such emotional turmoil that I am compelled to consume enormous bags of crisps and chocolate bars the size of bricks, until I’m sick? You tell me, you’re my therapist.

The minute I open the fridge, Minty comes padding across the kitchen, so I lift her up for a cuddle and we both stare at the calorie-counted meals neatly stacked on the shelves. I stay in the moment, remain mindful, and take out the chicken katsu. ‘Mmm, almost good enough to eat, eh, Minty?’

I lower her on to the floor and put the food in the microwave for four minutes on high.

I hate to even think this, but I’m glad David Montgomery’s dead.

My only surprise is that he waited all these years in prison to finally kill himself.

I do feel sorry for his kids, though. I lost my dad at a young age, and though my dad died and theirs went to prison, it’s still a loss when you’re young, and I know how hard it is.

But back then they were kids and didn’t understand.

All the evidence was there, and the prosecuting lawyer was amazing, she took everything he said and twisted it back around. He was toast!

I wander impatiently around my little kitchen as the microwave hums, counting down my four minutes closer to death.

I spot the card again, and my stomach lurches.

The last twenty years have been devoted to hiding, and holding my secret close.

Now suddenly there’s this invitation with a threat.

But they can’t possibly know. No one can.

The picture on the invite is Daisy, her hair golden in the sunshine. I remember taking that photo; they used it for her funeral. She’s smiling, her mouth is open, but her eyes are cold – she was angry with me that day.

It’s hard to leave the house, my sanctuary, but sometimes, when I don’t have what I need in the cupboards, I have to overcome my fear.

Before the microwave has a chance to finish nuking the chicken, I grab my keys and purse and run out to the car.

Then I drive as fast as I legally can to the nearest supermarket, and throw everything in the trolley: cake, cheese, chocolate, crisps.

As I walk through the car park with a basket full of temporary happiness, euphoria and self-loathing fight it out in my head.

And even on the drive home I start cramming food into my mouth and I won’t stop until it’s all gone.