HER HUSBAND’S KILLER an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Would I have had the nerve if it weren’t for the baby? Nerve? No, that’s not the word — it had nothing to do with nerve. Resolution is more like it. Would I have had the resolution to carry the vision through to reality, to take the rehearsal through to finished production? Probably not. But the baby changed everything. I couldn’t distance myself anymore.

  It was time to act.

  Chapter 4

  The conference room of the department of Zoology and Marine Biology had once been a reading room attached to the chaplaincy. It retained an ecclesiastical aloofness, with its half-panelled walls and mullion windows ornamented by trefoil tracery, but it was not religious respect which curbed the normally confident and assertive spirits of the assembly of academics the morning after Professor Wilkinson’s death.

  They sat in distinct clusters on the cheap, mustard-yellow foam chairs in the coffee bar. The conference table which occupied the other half of the room, behind fabric-covered screens and potted plants, had been laid with notepads and tumblers; jugs of water had been placed within reach of each setting, but nobody moved to the table, or even glanced in its direction. It was as if it were a source of dread. There was no apparent reason why this should be so: this meeting had been scheduled at the last monthly departmental meeting, but there was a palpable air of anxiety in the room.

  The Senate had used the planned gathering to call together the junior departmental members as well as heads of departments, in order to broach the delicate matter of Professor Wilkinson’s murder, and the complications it engendered.

  David Ainsley had been watching the assembly with the eye of an environmentalist, a role he retreated into when scientific impartiality was less uncomfortable than a more personal involvement. He had seen Tuttle arrive, self-conscious, anxious to hide what was obvious to them all. He had watched the others shuffle from the coffee machine to the chairs, the first establishing a niche for others to colonize. Like attracted like, warning off unwelcome or incompatible approaches with frowns of territorial ferocity. The room smelled of strong coffee and suppressed fear. Mick Tuttle had placed himself next to the coffee machine; it was the nearest chair to the door and also convenient for refills. He did not like attracting attention to himself by making his laborious way from one side of a crowded room to the other. The squelching leather and clinking metallic joints of his callipers embarrassed him as much as they embarrassed others; the noise and the difficulty with which he moved reminded people that he was a cripple — although cripple was not a word they would ever use — not to his face. Nevertheless, it was how many of them saw him, and Tuttle didn’t want to remind them of his disabilities. He had been among the first to arrive, finding his safe spot, carefully pulling the cuffs of his trousers over the rods and stays on his legs.

  ‘What the bloody hell is she doing here?’ said Mallory, loud enough for most of the assembly to hear. Mallory was referring to Helen Wilkinson. She had found a seat at the far end of the coffee bar next to Ruth Marks, unaware that her presence had excited such interest. She sipped her coffee from time to time, distracted, staring at the latticework of blurred, buttery-yellow diamonds traced by the play of sunlight through the windows to her left.

  * * *

  Did he speak? I’ve been trying to remember — it all happened so fast, slickly, like in a movie — there should have been atmospheric music. I think — I think he smiled, no more, smoothed the white linen, laying one hand palm-down on the still-warm sheet. The air pregnant with the smell of recent sex. Mouth-drying, faintly repugnant. Irrefutable.

  No struggle, no panic. Only a push of breath, hands gripping the sheets, twisting them — shock at the unexpectedness of it. But the knife had been well-honed with every ritualized rehearsal of his carefully planned death, and it pierced dermis, adipose tissue, striated muscle, pericardium, smooth muscle, effortlessly.

  Such a small thing, so lightweight, the blade slim, elegant in its way, marked by a thousand tiny striations, sharpened and resharpened in preparation for its work. Strange how one can develop a regard, almost an affection, for one’s tools — at least if they give good service.

  Like a burst balloon, he seemed to collapse in on himself. A failure of pressure. He was dead in seconds. It was humane, almost painless. The small incision, high in his chest, seeping gouts of bright crimson summoned an image of the crucified Christ.

  * * *

  David Ainsley turned to look at Mallory. He had the grey skin and bad temper of a convalescent. Tufty eyebrows overhung piercing black eyes and his face wore the jowly folds of a fat man thinned by age and poor digestion. His following had been taken in by his blunt irascibility, they hoped that he would say things which they dared not, and that by association they would be considered forthright and fearless in their opinions. But Mallory seldom thought before he spoke and since his opinions were generally based on malice and prejudice, they were universally ignored. Ainsley despised him.

  His questioning Helen Wilkinson’s presence had generated a flurry of whispers among his little cohort of malcontents — four zoologists who were more disgruntled than the rest since it seemed likely that the administrative headquarters of the proposed School of Life Sciences would be housed in their comfortable and newly refurbished eighteenth-century buildings, and that those zoologists who survived the reorganization would be moved to the less architecturally pleasing and far noisier red-brick Victorian street frontage. Ainsley eyed the group with undisguised contempt. The junior lecturers fell silent under his disparaging gaze. John Ellis, a postgraduate researcher in the final throes of his doctoral thesis, continued talking; his gesticulations seemed over-elaborate, stagey, to Ainsley’s jaundiced eye. Ellis was nervous, he decided. He always talked too much when he was nervous. Feeney, a senior lecturer nearer Dr Mallory’s age, sipped his coffee in apparent unconcern, but Ainsley noted the tremor in Feeney’s hand, and heard the clatter of his cup on its saucer.

  ‘She should be asked to leave,’ Mallory went on.

  ‘Bilious old tosser,’ Ainsley murmured through clenched teeth.

  Mallory scowled over at him.

  ‘He’s probably nervous that Edward discussed his piss-poor performance on the Research Assessment Exercise with wifey,’ Julian Rutherford said to Ainsley, stealing a glance at the dreamy profile of Helen Wilkinson. ‘It does seem . . . odd, though, Helen being present so soon after—’

  ‘She’s as much right to be here as anyone,’ said Ainsley, surprising himself as much as the group around him by his defence of Wilkinson’s widow. ‘Well,’ he added, realizing he had sounded too vehement, ‘I don’t see why people have to mind each other’s business.’

  ‘When they have trouble minding their own, you mean?’

  Ainsley rounded on Rutherford. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Rutherford took in the sudden angry flush. Ainsley’s fists were clenched, and his clear grey eyes looked somewhat bloodshot this morning. What had he been up to last night? Rutherford wondered. ‘Only that there are too many busybodies in our caring community,’ he said, satisfied that his message had gone home. In the main Rutherford liked Ainsley, but he was prone to a certain smugness which at times he found sickening. He had watched Ainsley analyse the interactions of his colleagues during the past half hour, assessing them as they arrived, evaluating their chances of survival in the reorganization, occasionally flicking his pale-yellow cowlick from his forehead. It wouldn’t occur to Ainsley that he, too, may be observed, that his own personal life could be the subject of speculation.

  Interesting, isn’t it, Rutherford thought, that Edward, who had all of our lives, or at least our livelihoods in his greasy paw is now gone, the power he wielded so despotically is now meaningless, and what’s left of him is already experiencing the destructive force of entropic disorder.

  A movement at the periphery of his vision made Rutherford turn from Ainsley. Smolder stalked across to Mallory and heated words were exchanged, none of which he could hear; Smolder was one o
f the old school who thought raising one’s voice an unforgivable vulgarity. Rutherford glanced over at Helen Wilkinson. She seemed unaware of the argument, which was just as well, since Rutherford suspected that Smolder’s attentions would be unwelcome to Dr Wilkinson, no matter how well-meant. Others did notice, however, and there was a sudden pall in the conversation which became a definite silence. A polite cough from the opposite end of the room and all eyes turned to the woman who had appeared from behind the screens near the conference area.

  ‘God,’ said Ainsley, ‘They’ve brought in Chambers.’ They being the Senate, who were now in the uncomfortable position of having to take over the selection (or more accurately, deselection) of about a third of the biological sciences staff for redundancy, a distasteful task which they had left, until his untimely demise had made it impossible, to the discretion of Professor Wilkinson.

  * * *

  Alice Chambers was a woman of indeterminate age. She wore her brown hair in a careless tangle of curls which bounced slightly as she nodded her head when emphasizing a point — something she did frequently and with considerable vigour.

  ‘Now,’ she said, leaning forward and balancing on the balls of her feet. ‘I know that you will have heard the distressing news of Professor Wilkinson’s death—’ She nodded on the words distressing and death. There was a collective intake of breath and Chambers’s glance, as comprehensively inclusive as a fish-eye lens, flicked quickly in Helen’s direction and then back to the main body of her audience. She took her time, as if taking a mental rollcall. Her eyes protruded slightly, adding to the disconcerting intensity of her stare, and many had difficulty returning it.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ she continued, softening the line she had intended to take, in deference to Helen’s feelings, ‘the Senate has no option but to continue with the schedule as planned. It is by no means an ideal state of affairs, and we would, of course’ — She nodded once — ‘prefer to postpone the selection procedure, but the final staffing matrices must be in place before the start of the summer term, so that—’ Here she paused and, instead of a nod, gave a little tilt of the head. ‘So that everyone is clear as to where they will stand at the new academic year.’ She let her eyes rove over the assembly once more. Some became fascinated by the contents of their coffee mugs, others discovered the need to retrieve writing materials from their briefcases. Two people met her gaze directly: Helen Wilkinson, who seemed to be having trouble discerning her meaning, and Ruth Marks, whose expression was a disconcerting mixture of contempt and amusement. ‘We have two weeks in which to complete the . . . adjustments,’ Chambers concluded.

  ‘If she calls it downsizing or rationalization,’ said Ainsley, ‘I think I shall do her physical harm.’

  Rutherford shot him a look which left him in no doubt that he thought the comment in very bad taste.

  Mallory spoke up: ‘So you want us to go through with the bloody charade of lectures and seminars?’

  Chambers considered. She had not anticipated such a direct involvement so early in the proceedings. She was to have participated directly at the final interview stage, after Professor Wilkinson had made his recommendations. She had left the details to him, and he had told her nothing about lectures and seminars. Would she lose face by openly admitting this, or would openness work in her favour? She chose to repeat the last part of Mallory’s question and hope that he would clarify without her really having to admit to her ignorance. ‘Lectures and seminars,’ she said reflectively.

  ‘If you’re worried about time,’ said Rutherford, ‘We could cut a couple of days by presenting our personal research proposals in a document or paper, to be discussed at the interview stage.’

  There was a general murmur of approval.

  ‘Better than having us perform like circus animals for our peers.’

  Chambers stared at Mallory, who had made this last statement. She had to admire the man’s audacity, drawing attention to himself, after his disastrous showing in the Research Assessment Exercise. Taking her look for disapproval of his criticism of Professor Wilkinson’s methods, Mallory stared back with open hostility.

  So, Chambers thought, Wilkinson had expected his colleagues to plead their case before their peers. An exercise in pointless humiliation. Pointless, she corrected herself, except for Wilkinson’s reputation for vindictiveness. She glanced over at Helen Wilkinson and wondered, not for the first time, what an intelligent woman had seen in such an overbearing and sadistic man. Helen sighed and took another sip of coffee. It must have been cold by then, but she seemed not to notice, and appeared to be immersed in some internal debate.

  * * *

  He was flamboyant in his affairs. There was no fun in it without the added piquancy of knowing that those harmed by his casual seductions knew — or at least suspected — what was going on. Edward never passed up an opportunity to humiliate. He went out of his way to engineer encounters, chance meetings, so that he could gloat, fire suspicions, compound the shame.

  Well, this was one too many, Edward.

  * * *

  There was a sudden exclamation from the far side of the room and Miss Chambers drew her gaze reluctantly from the pretty, anguished face. John Ellis had jumped to his feet and skittered off to the coffee dispenser, Helen’s eyes following him with the intensity of the distracted. Mallory reached up as he passed, but Ellis shrugged him off. He refilled his coffee cup and turned back to the assembly, who were watching him in silence. They watched, fascinated, as Ellis took two, three steps into the middle of the room and then addressed Helen:

  ‘I don’t know why you’re looking at me,’ he hissed. ‘Can’t you leave me alone?’ The academics were divided: the majority were embarrassed by the spectacle, but a few were enjoying themselves hugely and were disappointed when Tuttle stood up from his seat near the machine and laboured over to Ellis. He spoke in a low voice and Ellis blinked fearfully, then fled the room.

  His departure triggered a rustling and shuffling as of a starling roost disturbed by a passing owl, then Miss Chambers had their attention once more.

  ‘A fifteen-hundred-word summary of your work, together with ideas for sponsorship or other funding will be quite sufficient,’ she said, nodding emphatically and clasping her hands in front of her. ‘Shall we say, by the end of the week? In the meantime, heads of departments should, by now, have their accounts and budget requests ready for inspection, so if there are no questions, the rest of you are free to go. HODs or their representatives will convene at the conference table in’ — she glanced at her watch — ‘ten minutes.’

  She stopped on her way to the screened off area. ‘I’m so sorry about Edward, Helen.’

  Helen looked up, confused. ‘Are you?’ she asked. She seemed displaced from what was happening around her. ‘Why?’

  Alice Chambers blinked, ‘Why? Well, of course,’ she said, floundering for the suitable platitudes. ‘He was a great scientific mind. He would have headed the new faculty.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ Helen said.

  Chambers was rattled; she wasn’t sure if Helen was mocking her, but then Helen went on in a tone which expressed the resolution of a genuine bafflement: ‘I see — it will be difficult to find a replacement at such short notice.’

  ‘No — I didn’t mean . . .’ What she had meant to do was say a few words of comfort to a woman with whom she had no affinity and even less understanding, about a man she had found deeply unpleasant, and then move on to the business of the day, to fulfil her obligations as an administrator and as a colleague. This bizarre reaction was something she had not expected and did not know how to deal with.

  Ruth Marks stepped in to rescue her. ‘Helen isn’t quite herself this morning, Miss Chambers,’ she said. ‘She shouldn’t really have come.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Chambers, with feeling, shaking her curls in disapproval.

  ‘I needed to know what would happen . . . the procedure. If I’m to be made redundant,’ Helen said with that dreamy detachment Al
ice Chambers found so unsettling, ‘If I’m to be unemployed I would have to put the house up for sale, look for a new job.’

  Miss Chambers’s eyebrows shot up. Could the widow really be thinking in terms of her own security of tenure the day after her husband had been murdered? Ruth Marks seemed to read her thoughts. ‘You aren’t thinking straight, Helen,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you home. Maybe I should call Dr Patterson.’

  ‘Before you do,’ Chambers said, remembering the other reason for her detour through to the conference area, ‘perhaps you could spare me a few moments.’ Her eyes darted around the room.

  Ruth tilted her head to one side, looking down at the administrator. ‘Okay.’ She turned to check on her friends who was frowning at the back of her hand, lost again to reality. Ruth sighed and followed Miss Chambers through to the screened area.

  ‘I’m asking you this because I know I’ll get an objective answer.’

  ‘Good opening gambit,’ said Ruth, smiling. ‘Flattery, wrapped up in a plea for honesty.’

  ‘No flattery, Dr Marks,’ said Chambers, unsmiling. ‘But, since you are leaving us for pastures new, and would not be involved in the selection procedure, I feel I can rely on you to state things as they are. I assume, from what Dr Mallory said, that Professor Wilkinson had planned to . . . to require staff who were seeking re-employment within the new faculty to present their case to the existing body of academics?’

  Ruth didn’t answer immediately. ‘How like Edward not to tell you,’ she said. ‘And how like the Senate not to enquire.’ She shot a wicked look at Chambers, who at least had the good grace to seem embarrassed. Ruth shrugged. ‘For once in his sorry life, Mallory was right. Distasteful idea, isn’t it?’ The ambiguity was wasted on Miss Chambers whose only interest was a direct answer to her question. Ruth sighed. ‘Edward called everyone in yesterday morning, told them they would have to present a lecture to their colleagues and conduct a plenary session. Full attendance compulsory. A secret vote to follow each presentation. So, our distinguished team of academics were expected to plead for re-employment to the very people they would put out of a job if they were to succeed in their persuasion.’