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

by MARGARET MURPHY

  ‘Let your camera do the talking, Dermot, lad.’ Townley laughed. ‘You’re no orator.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone,’ said Dermot.

  ‘Well it’s done your mouth no good, but what an eye! Your pictures could persuade the proverbial simians from the arboretum.’ Townley examined them at close quarters. ‘It’s like one of those holograms — look at it from a different angle and you see something else. What the hell is she thinking?’

  Dermot grinned. It was just the impression he’d had when he’d taken the shot. It was the very expressionlessness of her face that made it so compelling; was it sadness, or fear, or a dull rage, or cold contempt? It all depended upon the perspective of the observer.

  ‘We’ll have to choose the caption carefully,’ Townley said, the same thought having occurred to him.

  * * *

  Helen took the paper from Ruth and read the caption: ‘Dr Wilkinson returns to House of Death.’

  ‘I didn’t even notice him — the photographer,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve been pretty much out of it since it happened,’ said Ruth. ‘Nice to have you back.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Helen had begun to read the article under her picture. There were names, details, more than she had known herself. ‘Who gave them this? Can they say these things and get away with it?’

  Ruth shrugged. ‘Don’t they say you can’t libel the dead? Anyway, it’s true, isn’t it? I’d say they’ve a fairly restrained and dignified style — wait till the tabloids really get their teeth into it — the Herald is running a story on Don Juan, the Casanova of St Werburgh’s. I think they’ve rather mixed their analogies, but that’s the Herald for you. And as for who, take your pick — Edward made enemies like I make jam sandwiches: with flair, with panache, and with the compulsiveness of an addict.’

  Helen read on. ‘Poor David!’

  Ruth snorted. ‘David Ainsley can take care of himself. The good thing is it’s given the police a few more suspects to keep them busy. Don’t look at me like that, Helen,’ seeing her disparaging look. ‘You were out of your skull for a couple of days. You more or less confessed to the murder of your husband. If it weren’t for that nice Sergeant Hackett, Inspector Nelson would have you banged up by now. You should be grateful the press have given him a few more names to think about.’

  ‘And if I did do it?’ Helen asked, thinking uneasily of her dream.

  Ruth groaned. ‘If? If? What if Gazza becomes cultural attaché to the European Community? What if I’m awarded the Nobel Prize for my contributions to scientific advancement? Hey, anything’s possible — it might happen.’

  ‘Now you’re being preposterous,’ Helen said angrily.

  ‘Because it is preposterous,’ Ruth argued. ‘The notion of you killing — is beyond ludicrous. You can’t bring yourself to cross the threshold into the dissection room because the sight and smell of death appals you. You can’t even do the research you used to because you can’t face the corpses. You haven’t eaten properly in months. You’re nauseated by the smell of animal flesh — and you’re asking me to believe you stuck a knife in him? Watched him bleed to death?’ She shook her head. ‘You haven’t got it in you. Whoops!’ She caught Helen as she buckled at the knees and helped her to a chair.

  ‘I’m sick of this,’ said Helen, pale, but rallying. ‘I’m sick of feeling so weak. So . . .’

  ‘So eat!’ said Ruth, imitating her Jewish mother. ‘It’s no wonder you’re passing out all over the place. All I’ve seen you eat in two days is a bowl of soup and a bread roll.’

  Helen stared at her feet, trying to stave off a cold wave of faintness. ‘It still seems — so plausible. Why shouldn’t I have killed him? He deserved it.’

  ‘Why indeed? But you didn’t kill him. Someone else did and then left him for you to find. That wasn’t very nice of them.’

  Helen stared. ‘Not very nice?’ she echoed. ‘You don’t object to Edward’s murder, but you think it was impolite to leave his body for me to find?’

  Ruth stared back. ‘Do I really need to tell you what a shit your husband had been? I could enumerate his many and varied faults but is that really necessary?’

  Helen knew that her husband had been a bully, a serial adulterer and a vicious, social-climbing snob whose ambition far outweighed his talent. Helen didn’t need anyone to tell her that most of his acquaintance hated, feared and despised Edward.

  They were startled by the telephone ringing. Ruth went to answer it, returning a few moments later, subdued.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘One of the tabloids, wanting a comment.’

  ‘How did they get this number?’

  ‘Being ex-directory is scant protection against those jackals.’ Ruth sighed. ‘You’d best stay at my place for a few days.’ She picked up the newspaper which Helen had discarded on the kitchen table and jammed it back into her pocket. ‘Come on, I’ll take you there now.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘I’m staying here,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not going to let them drive me from my home.’

  Ruth’s cool blue eyes searched her friend’s face. A trace of amusement flickered at the corners of her mouth. ‘Attagirl,’ she murmured.

  Chapter 9

  The front door slammed, and the baby jerked awake, instantly screaming. Clara Ainsley groaned. Her eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep and from crying, her hair, normally so sleek and well groomed, was caught carelessly in a scrunchy and pulled back into a ponytail. It had not been washed in two days and she couldn’t bear it on her face. She carried the baby through to the narrow hallway; he was overheated and cranky — he smelled of curdled milk and warm talcum powder. He had thrown up on the clean babygro she’d put on him not half an hour earlier and she was damned if she would change him again. He had kept up an incessant keening for the day and a half that David had been missing; that constant, penetrating baby cry that will not be ignored, as though he knew there was something wrong. It had set her teeth on edge until she had fled to the upper rooms of the house, but his howls had spiralled up the stairwell, and even when she played a CD blaring rock music she imagined she could hear him. She had stood at the head of his cot, screaming back at him but that only made him worse, so finally she had gone out of the house — left him — because she feared that if she went to him she would hurl him from the nursery window to the concrete path below. She even imagined it — the flight, the sudden, soft thud, the silence. The blessed, longed-for silence.

  She had walked to the river and for a while she watched the ducks bobbing frantically on the wind-whipped water. It was bitterly cold, and she had left the house without an overcoat, but she could not go back, could not trust herself near him yet. On the flimsy footbridge over the river she saw a young couple kiss, as she and Edward had kissed so often, but never so publicly. Once, they had found a quiet spot in the park on the other side of the bridge half afraid and half excited by the thrill of indiscretion, the risk of discovery. They had talked, whispered, shared their food and drink, sipping from the same glass, feeding each other morsels, laughing, touching, kissing like teenaged lovers. He had slept, briefly, stretched out on the tartan rug that her mother had given her as a wedding present, and she had teased him, kissing him awake. He had feigned sleep until she had been ready to lose patience and then he had grabbed her and tumbled her to the rug and returned her kiss with all the passion that David had once felt for her. She and Edward had shared something special, precious, to be cherished, and he had wasted it. Whenever she began to regret her actions on that awful day, she only had to think of what he had thrown away . . . She could not have allowed him to treat her as he had treated the others.

  She had returned an hour later, calmer, able to pick up the still-screaming baby, able to resist the compulsion to shake him. She shushed him, holding him in the crook of her arm as, one-handed, she mixed him another bottle of milk. He refused it of course, forcing the teat out of his mouth with his tongue in ill-t
empered self-spite and arching his hot little body until her arm ached. She walked. Miles and miles of carpet-wearing, back-breaking walking, trying him with the bottle until finally, exhausted, he began to suck and within minutes had fallen asleep. And then the front door had slammed.

  David Ainsley looked both haggard and sullen. He was unshaven and his suit and overcoat were badly rumpled. Clara and David eyed each other, the baby carriage forming a barrier between them. It was an old-fashioned Silver Cross pram in the grand style, too big for the house; soon it would be too small for the baby, but Clara had wanted it and as usual he had given way to her.

  ‘Satisfied?’ she asked.

  ‘Far from it.’

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘What the hell do you care?’

  ‘I was worried.’ The baby had screamed without taking breath since the front door had slammed and she patted his back, thinking if he doesn’t stop soon, he’ll choke, then, with a rush of venom — I hope he bloody does, then David will see what I’ve been through these last two days.

  ‘Thought you’d lost both your men, did you?’ David asked.

  ‘For God’s sake, David!’

  ‘Sorry — I’m not being terribly adult about this, am I?’

  Clara thought of Edward, so unlike David, both in appearance and in temperament. David’s anger — and she supposed he had a right to be angry — seemed like childish petulance. She could not remember, nor even imagine, Edward being anything less than impressive. His anger had been daunting, his criticism crushing, his arguments bruising to the ego. She wondered again why she had ever married David. The notion of love, or even affection seemed outrageous — this sulking, flop-haired child? She made a conscious effort to imagine how Edward would have handled the situation, to frame the words he would have spoken.

  ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’

  ‘Me? I haven’t been carrying on a shabby little affair—’

  ‘There wasn’t anything shabby about it!’ Clara interrupted, flushing, telling herself it was anger rather than shame; but all the same, remembering their meetings at a motel near Heswall — far enough beyond the Cheshire boundary to remove some of the danger, but not too far for her to make the journey by bus, anonymous enough to be safe, hygienic enough to seem wholesome, even guiltless in its laundered sterility.

  He was watching her. ‘It was beautiful, then, was it? With him?’

  She eyed him coldly. ‘Strange you’ve said nothing until now. You must have known — even you aren’t quite so dense.’

  ‘How dare you!’ he growled. ‘Of course I didn’t know.’

  She snuffed air through her nose, despising his dishonesty. He might not admit it to himself, but he had known, and had let the affair go on, suppressing his uncertainties, his niggling doubts about the excuses she’d made.

  ‘Don’t play the wronged husband with me, David, I know you better,’ she said.

  ‘Are you going to tell me you did it for us, Clara? Tell me you shagged the boss to keep me in a job?’ His voice rose to a screech and the baby’s cries became frightened, a persistent, staccato bleat.

  Clara curled her lip in contempt, looking over the baby’s shoulder at him, reminding herself to pat rather than hit. ‘Don’t sully what we had with your sordid interpretation. It wasn’t like that,’ she said.

  ‘You’d call it something different, would you? What euphemism would you come up with — “love”? Please don’t ask me to believe you were in love with that shit!’

  ‘Edward cared about me!’ They competed with the rising volume of the baby’s screams.

  ‘Like he cared for all of them,’ he sneered, ‘his students who got themselves laid because it would help their grades or because they were flattered by the attention; the junior lecturers and the secretaries and the technicians.’ He looked her up and down. ‘The sad succession of women who fell for his good looks and questionable charm.’

  He must have seen the sudden awful pang of doubt that shot through her, because he added with a spark of triumph: ‘You were only there to bolster his ego when it felt a little flaccid—’ He laughed harshly. ‘And for anything else that needed a female hand to firm it up.’

  ‘You disgust me,’ she hissed. The baby hiccupped, took another lungful of air and began again.

  ‘Yeah? Well that makes us even.’

  ‘And what about you, and men like you, hanging onto his coat tails, turning a blind eye to Edward’s little transgressions? What does that make you, David?’

  He ignored the jibe. ‘You think he cared for you? He was about to get rid of you.’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish. You didn’t even know him.’

  ‘Types are easy to read,’ he said. ‘And Edward Wilkinson was a type: a walking phallus, a supreme ego. He called us all into his office the day he was murdered.’ He felt a cruel spurt of joy seeing Clara flinch at the word.

  ‘He saved me until last. Told me he didn’t think my research into dog whelks was de rigueur. “Been done to death,” he said. “Molluscs are the province of the great Steve Jones, and he does it so much better. Find yourself another niche.” He did like his little puns. But then, you’d know that, wouldn’t you, darling? He suggested that one of the new City Universities might be grateful for someone like me, who would bring a bit of old-style traditional research. “Gives them credibility. A sense of cultural identity.” I wish I’d smashed my fist into his self-satisfied, smirking mouth!’

  Clara stared at him round-eyed.

  ‘What’s the matter, darling? Am I getting through? Are you finally making the connection? If Edward intended getting rid of me, that means you were on the way out.’ He grinned, showing his teeth. ‘Don’t look so hurt, Clara. After all, mumsy, milky, women wafting baby puke, talcum powder and Eau de merde weren’t exactly ‘de rigueur’ with old Ed. He went in for younger, racier models. Who do you think he had spent the afternoon with?’

  Clara held the baby too tightly and he squirmed in her arms, fighting for breath. ‘How should I know?’

  David laughed and she shuddered at the harshness of the sound.

  ‘My God, Clara, was it you? The papers say he was found naked in bed. If it was you he was humping, then you’re what the police call a prime suspect—’ He raised his eyebrows, hugely amused by the idea.

  Clara stood gaping but as he stamped up the stairs to their bedroom, she followed him, releasing her grip on the baby enough for him to let out a furious bellow.

  ‘Of course it wasn’t me,’ she said.

  ‘Not exactly an instantaneous reaction, my love — the denial of an outraged innocent.’ David fetched down a suitcase and a few grey balls of dust from the top of the wardrobe.

  ‘David, how can you think—’

  ‘That my wife would do such a thing? Well, I have to admit, it took a while for me to accept that you could be unfaithful. Even longer to entertain — entirely the wrong word — the thought that you were shagging that bloody Priapus. Now . . .’ He paused, gave a small shake of his head. ‘Now, I’d believe you capable of just about anything, Clara.’

  He felt her staring at him as he packed, and for some reason her passivity enraged him even more. The baby’s crying had abated somewhat and although he whimpered and complained, snuffling unhappily, he seemed calmer.

  David slammed shirts and socks, underwear and trousers into the case at random.

  Gradually realization seemed to dawn on her. ‘What are you—?’

  David threw her a burning, bloodshot look and then continued with his packing.

  ‘You’re not going,’ she shouted. ‘You can’t go!’ She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off, raising his hand to strike her, then horrified, he lowered his arm.

  ‘You see what you make of me?’ he said hoarsely. He was shaking uncontrollably. ‘Well I won’t let you do it.’ He shut his eyes for a moment and drew a breath, then he continued with his packing.

  ‘You can’t! You can’t leave me!’ she screame
d. ‘What about the baby! Your son?’

  ‘My son?’

  ‘You bastard,’ she whispered.

  He clicked the clasps of the suitcase closed, fixing her with a shrivelling look. ‘Are you talking to me or the child?’

  She swung at him with the open palm of her free hand, but he caught her wrist and pulled her to him, ignoring the grizzling cries of the baby. ‘Read that,’ he snarled, fumbling a copy of the Herald from his coat pocket. ‘Don Juan, they’re calling him — like the pun? Subtle, isn’t it? It doesn’t name you, but there isn’t anyone else it could be. How long was it going on for, Clara? A year? More? How many people knew about it? How many lies did you tell me? Did you let him fuck you here? In this house? In our bed? That would really amuse Edward.’ He let go of her and ran downstairs with the suitcase. She flew after him, stumbling with her burden, her screams rising above the baby’s.

  ‘You bloody spineless shit, David! You weren’t so particular when the affair was clean and confidential, secret, behind closed doors. You were more concerned about keeping your second-rate job than holding our marriage together. You’re just another of those little men who tried to get what they could from Edward. Leeches. Parasites — petty, small-minded people with no ideas and no talent of their own. And now everyone is going to know it because the press have got hold of the story and they’re going to describe it as it is: Edward took what he wanted and you let him, because you were afraid not to. That’s what really makes you angry — facing up to what you really are.’

  He flung open the door and barged headlong into Sergeant Hackett.

  The detective took a step back, looking past Ainsley to his wife and the screaming child. ‘Dr Ainsley,’ he said mildly. ‘We’ve been trying to track you down all morning.’

  Chapter 10

  It’s laughable. The Jehovah’s Witnesses say we’re different from other animals because we have the power of reason, and a divinity bestowed on us by God. They must never have met story-hungry journalists. I wonder what the collective noun for sharks is — a feeding frenzy? Mindless bunch of pricks! Feed them a line and they swallow the bait, the hook the line, every clichéd word — they’ll even fight over it. Give them a good, stiff scandal and they’ll print every scurrilous detail: names, dates, hotel rooms, the lot. All I have to do now is wait for the police to pick up on it. They seem to favour the tabloids. Nice to know they keep abreast of current affairs. Well, if it keeps the bastards from focusing on the real target, who cares?