Chapter 1: Visitor 1 Visitor
Friday, November 15

Muswell Hill is a leafy suburb on a hill overlooking North London. It’s not Hampstead or Highgate, of course, but a five-bedroom house on one of its prime roads will still set you back over three million.

I live with my husband and two children at 44 Ennerdale Avenue, a highly desirable tree-lined road close to the shops of the Broadway and the open green spaces of Alexandra Palace. It’s within walking distance of three good schools, and in the spring the street is full of cherry blossoms.

Our home is a double-fronted Edwardian villa with all its original features. Marble fireplaces, stained glass panels, and ornate cornices abound, to which we’ve added the requisite architect-designed kitchen extension. It’s the perfect blend of period charm and contemporary style.

The house boasts panoramic floor-to-ceiling glass doors, a generous south-facing garden, five well-appointed double bedrooms, three exquisite bathrooms, and two light-filled reception rooms—one of which currently contains a dead body.

I’ve not called the police because it was I who stabbed him. Seven times in all, which no doubt the authorities will call overkill. The truth is, it’s surprisingly difficult to kill someone with a vegetable knife. But as I was preparing carrot sticks at the time, it’s all I had to hand. Wounds two through seven, therefore, were more to do with an eagerness to avoid any interruptions to Nathan’s birthday party than any deranged psychopathic impulse.

To be clear, I’m not of diminished responsibility, nor am I drunk or under the influence of any kind. I can assure you that I couldn’t chair the junior school winter fair committee unless I was absolutely on my mettle at all times. Besides, any forensic pathologist worth their salt would confirm that the axillary artery was severed rather precisely—a surgical rather than an impassioned incision—and I’m rather proud of my steadiness after so many years of self-restraint.

The specific blood vessel in question is hidden just under the armpit and usually quite inaccessible, but when someone grabs you around the neck and tries to strangle you, it presents a decent target. You thrust your blade upward, drag it backward, et voilà.

It’s only fair to say that I’ve been slightly overwrought recently: Nelly’s admissions tests, for one thing, my mother-in-law’s interference in our lives, for another. Not to mention Stephen stopping all conjugal activity, which really hasn’t helped my mood.

In case you’re wondering, the dead man is not my husband. I do resent the lack of sex, but I wouldn’t kill him for it. Not yet, anyway. More annoying is his lack of grit. I set him the task of making partner a year ago, and he’s still trying. It’s unsettling when you work hard to build a successful marriage and your husband can’t keep up his side of the bargain. The uplift in income is essential to my plan to move to Hampstead and have a third child. Our marriage depends on it.

Speaking of children, Nathan, who’s four today, slept through the whole affair, which is a relief as he’s moody if interrupted during a nap. My friends and their offspring arrive in under thirty minutes and I’ve got to finish the party tea, fold the organic napkins, and bring up two bottles of Chablis from the cellar. And now I also have to change my outfit and somehow dispose of a corpse.

This presents something of a dilemma. Do I cancel and face the wrath of Sophie, who believes that regular access to chilled white wine is an inalienable human right, or simply close the door and deal with the corpse after I pick up Nelly from school? As we chose not to extend our open-plan kitchen-diner into the living room, I do have the option of sealing the area off with a Do Not Enter sign.

I chastise myself for being indecisive but, in my defense, I’ve not had to deal with this kind of situation since Stephen and I were married, seven years ago now, and, since the children came along, well, I wouldn’t have had the energy anyway. I’ve often wondered whether becoming a mother has softened me, but looking at the ravaged corpse at my feet, I think this is hard to argue.

After considering my options, I decide to go ahead with Nathan’s birthday party. The cake alone cost nearly £400, and I’d hate to waste the opportunity to pass off someone else’s talent as my own. Anyway, the deceased isn’t going anywhere, and if I let something slip from my to-do list today, there’s no telling where I’ll be by the end of the week.

I just need to tidy myself up a little as I look like I’ve been visiting an abattoir on Ladies’ Day. By my estimation, there are several pints of blood all over my Persian rug and parquet floor, not to mention my Oscar de la Renta dress. I unzip and let it fall in a puddle of silk at my feet. The blood has soaked right through to my underwear, and that will have to go too.

Kicking off my splattered heels, I stand completely nude amid these human remains. For a moment, I feel a bit sorry for myself, because I did love that dress, and no amount of dry cleaning will remove all the forensic evidence. The same goes for the nine thousand pounds’ worth of dyed Persian sheep’s wool.

As I leave, I notice a fine spray of arterial blood on the wall that has almost dried to a Tuscan red, and suddenly I’m looking at the paint job, which was done last year in Little Greene’s Pompeian Ash and Lute, and realize this is a wonderful opportunity for a whole new color scheme.