As it turned out, a Lidl joint of preserved Spanish Serrano ham was just the right size to bash your husband of ten years to death.
It had been the affair that had finally triggered it. The secret texts, the suspicious amount of time being spent in the shed “looking for that thing”.
She hadn’t planned it, but there’d been the argument and the accusations and suddenly it was in her hands and one clean swing and contact at just the right part of his head and he was dead before his smug annoying face hit her tiles which she’d only had put down before the lockdown, having sourced them from Ireland’s leading independent builders providers and home improvement store at surprisingly competitive prices.
She sat and recomposed herself.
The lockdown had certainly put them both in a frustrated state of mind, tipping them over into blazing rows, and the discovery of the affair ended it, although the marriage had been over for a number of years before.
Maybe if there had been children, she thought, but dismissed it just as quickly.
Her friends who had kids just seemed to find different things to fight about, mostly about who was taking little Sebastian to his violin lesson on Saturday morning.
She surprised herself that she felt no remorse, her mind not swimming but calm. If anything she was surprised not just how calm she was, but how it was subsconsciously moving onto what she needed to do next.
Years of “CSI” and “Midsomer Murders” were now rushing in, filling gaps in a plan.
Right, first things first.
She put on a pair of laytex gloves (thank you Covid-19), and grabbed his phone, and used his cold thumb to unlock it. She then reset the password so that she could access it when she needed.
Then she brought down those giant vacuum storage bags she’d bought, and squeezed his body into one, zipping it up and sealing it with the vacuum cleaner, but not fully because she remembered from an episode of some murder show that the body gives off gases and expands post-mortem, so she left the bag loose to allow expansion. She then put that bag inside another bag, and sealed that loosely just to be sure.
She had thought about putting the body in the deep freeze, but that would show up on an autopsy, and anyway her plan meant she could dispose of him before he started to seriously decompose.
A look at her watch. 8pm. It was starting to get dark.
This could work, she thought.
She got dressed, and took his phone, walking out of the estate and down towards the harbour. She made sure to dress warm, covering herself up and wearing that stupid bright red hat he wore when walking because he thought it made him look like a young hipster.
The harbour was only ten minutes away on foot, and she as she walked she scrolled through various text and WhatsApp messages looking for the right one.
She found it. His best mate. A quick look through previous texts to give her an idea of what sort of language he used, and she sent a message.
“Telling u mate, not sure how much more I can take of this crazy bitch.”
When she reached the hardbour, she looked around to make sure there were no cameras or other people, then smashed the phone against some rocks and tossed it in the water.
She walked back to the house, and it was now dark, and reentered.
Wrapping the vacuumed packed body in a black plastic bag, she checked the way was all clear, opened the boot, and in a clean run got the body in and door down just as a bloke with a dog walked by.
He smiled the Covid smile and walked on.
Just before she got into the car she stopped to think.
Had she missed anything?
Her own phone would stay in the house, his phone showed him clearly leaving and going for a walk down by the harbour. On impulse, she ran back inside and filled a small paper bag with a carton of milk, bread, and a swiss roll. She then got into the car, and slowly drove out of the estate, and straight into a Garda checkpoint.
Where the hell had that come from?
The young Garda was accompanied by two plain clothesed officers wearing “Armed Garda” flak jackets. He raised his hand.
“Good evening, can I ask you where you are going?”
“I’m just dropping some stuff down to a friend near the harbour. Cocooning. She’s nearly 80.”
The Garda looked at the bag on the passenger seat, and nodded, waving her on.
As it happened, she did actually drop groceries down to an elderly woman she knew regularly, so she headed down, rang the doorbell, and presented the unexpected bounty to the confused but grateful senior citizen, having a vague alibi if the young Garda recalled her being out.
She chatted with her for a few minutes, then got into her car, and headed to the rocks near the harbour. When it was all clear, she opened the boot, lifted out the vacuum bag and dragged it to the edge, muttering under her breath about her departed husband’s love of “Fucking Swiss Rolls”.
She used a Stanley blade to careful cut him out of the bags, put his red hat on his head, and tipped the body into the water, where the waves started hitting it against the jagged rocks before it sank.
She hoped that would mask the original head injury.
She took the empty plastic bag and stopped at a random house with a recycling bin outside waiting for morning collection, and dumped the material.
Fifteen minutes later she was home.
They’d had a row, she’d tell the Garda tomorrow, when she reported him missing. She’d ring his phone later, frantically, repeatedly, leaving hysterical messages after she’d “calmed down and was worried he’d not returned”, leaving plenty of concerned wife evidence.
She’d ring his best mate looking for him too. More evidence.
But first, she’d ring her lover. He liked Serrano ham, she recalled.