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

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Ruth Marks picked up the shot of Ellis outside the house and peered at it. She laughed suddenly. ‘Isaac Smolder!’

  ‘What?’ Dr Wilkinson turned her attention to the photographs.

  ‘Look.’ Ruth held up the picture for Helen to see. ‘That’s Isaac’s car.’ Snatching it back, she peered at it more closely. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone in it — I wonder where he was hiding. Jeez, Helen, you draw them like flies to shit!’

  Helen gazed, startled, into her friend’s face.

  ‘Manner of speech,’ Dr Marks said. ‘Bees to a honey pot, wasps to a picnic, butterflies to a buddleia. Whatever.’

  ‘Is there any reason you can think of, why Dr Smolder would be outside your house?’ Hackett asked.

  * * *

  Helen Wilkinson shuddered. Smolder with his papery skin and his cold, analytical scrutiny. He seemed to like watching her, always positioning himself in the refectory or the coffee bar where he could see and be seen. She heard the whisper of his thumb against his forefinger as he carefully rubbed each tiny crumb of bread from his hands to his plate, an action so ritualistic she had half expected him to pick up the plate and wipe the crumbs into his glass — bread and wine, Body and Blood. The thought drew her eyes back to the sink unit, where Hackett stood.

  ‘Dr Wilkinson?’

  ‘Sorry? Oh, no. I can think of no earthly reason why he . . .’ Her voice trailed off. It made her sick to think he had been outside her house, his unblinking eyes watching, watchful.

  ‘You haven’t had any other nasty surprises, Dr Wilkinson?’

  Helen blanched, then recovered. ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It seems Ellis thought you had reported him to the Senate. Otherwise, why the rather crude attempt to shock you?’

  ‘Not so crude,’ Ruth said. She went to the kitchen unit and, having hustled the sergeant to one side, began rooting in the top drawer. Helen held her breath. ‘There was a lot of blood,’ she explained, ‘which shows that he knew about Helen’s previous research. Also,’ she took out a teaspoon and slammed the drawer closed, ‘in choosing a pregnant doe, he demonstrated a knowledge of why she’s unable to perform that particular aspect of her research now.’ She tilted her head on one side. ‘I’d say brutal, rather than crude.’

  Helen forced her attention from the set of drawers to Ruth, who was stirring heroic quantities of sugar into her coffee.

  ‘You won’t mind if we scout round and make sure he didn’t leave anything else?’ Hackett immediately turned and was on his way through the door into the hallway.

  Helen jumped to her feet. ‘Yes, I do mind.’ She couldn’t allow them to search the house. Not with the knife basking like a shark in the kitchen drawer.

  He turned back.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t have to give an explanation,’ Helen said, trying to keep her voice steady, ‘but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m sick of the intrusion. My house doesn’t seem like my own anymore. If you want to search it, you’ll have to get a warrant.’

  Hackett eyed her thoughtfully; could he know that her new-found confidence was a flimsy construct? He was about to push the point when Ruth Marks spoke:

  ‘Helen! This is nice Sergeant Hackett. He’s only trying to help.’

  Helen stood her ground. ‘I won’t have them tramping through the house, prying.’

  ‘Well, of course you are within your rights to refuse us permission to look around, but I will get a warrant, Dr Wilkinson, there’s no question of that. You see we got notice today of a previous conviction. Assault, causing grievous bodily harm. That rather changes the complexion of things.’

  Helen blinked. Staring out into the dimly lit hallway, she saw only the oily black night, a drizzle making a thousand pinpoints of light in the headlamp beams.

  He’s standing near a doorway, shuttered, as they all are against the vandals and the drug addicts. No shelter, but he doesn’t need it; he can trade in broad daylight without fear of being caught. In the spotlight of the headlamps she sees something else — a quick movement, a flash of something silver, foil-wrapped. Sleight of hand: Now you see it, now you don’t. Then he crosses the street, heading towards his own car.

  She pulls out, anxious, the new driver, unsure of the acceleration, the power of her car. She needs to catch him before he gets to his car, to safety.

  He turns, a casual look over his shoulder. He is handsome, young, convinced of his own immortality. An image comes unbidden, unwanted, of Robbie, grey, lifeless, already melting into a past she would give anything to be able to rewrite.

  The pusher slows his pace, arrogant, daring her to sound her horn. Her foot presses heavily on the accelerator and the car slews a little to the left. Then she’s moving forward, fast. She aims the car full at him and he turns again, smiling at first, but then alarmed. Terror strikes his features as they struck Robbie’s. He tries to throw himself to one side, too late.

  ‘What was it, Dr Wilkinson? Two years? It would have been a lot longer if he’d died, but you were lucky — that time.’

  ‘Helen?’ For the first time, Ruth seemed unsure of her. Uncertain how to react. Her cool cynicism seemed to have failed her entirely.

  She reached to touch Helen’s shoulder, but Helen shrugged her off. She went to the sink and ran a glass of water, taking a sip before looking Hackett in the eye.

  ‘There was no luck in it,’ she said. ‘If I’d been lucky, my brother would be alive today.’

  Chapter 23

  Nelson seemed surprisingly philosophical about the usurping of his authority. He even congratulated Hackett on his success. Nobody mentioned his unexplained absence — Nelson was not the sort of man whose health and well-being were inquired after: he had, over the years, cultivated in his subordinates a healthy respect for his privacy. The Super had called him into office on his return, and he had gone without demur — another unusual occurrence.

  When he came into the incident room, Hackett looked his boss over: Nelson had been with the Superintendent some thirty minutes, but he showed no signs of stress, nor even of annoyance. He was poker-faced, inscrutable.

  Nelson’s return gave DC Wright a new confidence; it made him belligerent. ‘I don’t get it, Sarge,’ he said, suddenly heated, exasperated. ‘We’ve got a confession from Clara Ainsley that she went to the professor’s house just before he was killed. She admits she was pissed off with him — understatement — ’cos he was having it off with someone else. And you’re not even interested.’

  Nelson’s eyes gleamed. ‘Not interested, Sergeant?’

  ‘Let’s say the focus of my interest has shifted.’

  ‘Well,’ Nelson growled. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  Hackett explained that he had found the report on Helen Wilkinson on his desk that afternoon. She had deliberately run down the drugs dealer who had supplied the E’s that had killed her brother. He had survived, but she had been sent down for two years for causing grievous bodily harm; the prosecution would like to have charged her with attempted murder, but it was more difficult to prove, and she had a sympathetic and extremely persuasive barrister. Hackett recounted the details of their visit to Dr Wilkinson, her reaction to the news that Smolder’s car had been parked outside her house and her refusal to let them conduct a search, all delivered in his usual, efficient, dispassionate manner, neither elaborating, nor offering his own interpretation, but sticking to reporting the plain facts.

  He shot a look at Wright. ‘Missed anything, have I?’

  Wright looked at his shoes and muttered ‘No, Sarge.’

  Nelson thought for some time and Hackett left him to it.

  ‘Have you applied for a warrant?’ Nelson said at last.

  Hackett nodded.

  ‘There’s a few unanswered questions, as yet,’

  Wright gave an enthusiastic answer in the affirmative, but Nelson’s withering look was not encouraging.

  Nelson and Hackett renewed eye contact, and Hackett was astonished to see respect in the I
nspector’s eyes.

  ‘Shershay le fem,’ Nelson said, elliptically.

  ‘Have been, sir,’ Hackett said with a self-deprecating dip of his head. ‘But Prof Wilkinson’s MO was to be extremely discreet in his early liaisons with a new lover. It was only when he got bored, he got careless.’

  ‘Clara Ainsley invented the other woman!’ Wright said, heatedly. ‘Why would he be seeing another woman when he’d got her all set up with a job as his secretary?’

  ‘Last fling?’ Hackett suggested.

  ‘Couldn’t help himself? One-night stand? Or afternoon delight, to be more precise,’ Nelson added.

  Wright looked from one to the other. ‘This is crazy!’

  ‘You could be right, lad,’ Nelson agreed. ‘But it never does any harm to examine all the facts and think through the possible scenarios.’

  Astonished twice over by his boss’s restraint, Hackett said, ‘And whichever way you look at it, Clara Ainsley is in the clear for the attack on Molyneux. Her mother came up from Swindon to stay with her yesterday. Apparently, her husband has moved out, and the baby’s driving her up the wall. She was with her the entire evening.’

  ‘She’s not in the clear for the murder, though, is she?’ Wright said rather sulkily.

  ‘No,’ Nelson agreed, ‘But it seems likely whoever murdered the professor, also attacked Molyneux.’

  Hackett nodded.

  ‘What about the husband?’ Nelson asked.

  ‘Dr Ainsley was moving his stuff into his new flat. A Dr Rutherford was with him until nearly midnight, and the neighbours went up to complain at about one o’clock, when he was still moving furniture around.’

  Jane Brinckley appeared with a message for Hackett and he excused himself, stepping into the corridor.

  ‘Found the leak,’ she said, coming straight to the point. ‘WPC Paula Jimson. What d’you want me to do about it?’

  Hackett glanced at his watch. ‘Can you administer a preliminary bollocking? The DI will want to speak to her when he’s got a bit more time.’

  ‘What about the Super?’

  ‘See what Nelson has to say first,’ he said. Jimson was new, and perhaps easily charmed by a bit of flattery from a journo; maybe Hackett, in his new-found tolerance, would let her off with a talking to.

  Jane Brinckley relaxed visibly. ‘Thanks, Terry.’

  ‘It’s like my daughter says — you can’t have one rule for the lads and another for the lasses.’

  ‘Where’s Smolder now?’ Nelson asked, as he stepped back into the office.

  ‘At home, I should think.’

  ‘Well, I hate to drag him from the warmth of his fireside on a night like this,’ Nelson said, with an evil gleam in his eye, ‘but I’m sure he won’t mind assisting us in our inquiries.’

  * * *

  Smolder did mind. He made it clear that he minded a great deal. He minded so much, in fact, that he insisted on having his solicitor present at the interview.

  Nelson, playing up the emphasis on correct procedure, was assiduous in his identification for the tape of those present. They were: Dr Isaac Smolder; his solicitor, Mr Julian Farrell, of Midhurst, Farrell and Binks, Detective Inspector Nelson and Detective Sergeant Hackett.

  ‘Now, can you explain what you were doing at Dr Wilkinson’s house yesterday evening, sir?’

  ‘No.’ Smolder folded his hands in front of him, on the desk and gazed levelly at Nelson.

  Nelson’s eyes sparked. ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ repeated Smolder. ‘I cannot, since I was not there.’

  ‘Sure of that, are you?’ Nelson’s voice, normally a low growl, was almost a purr.

  Mr Farrell, a small, balding man in a brown suit, tan shirt and brown woollen tie, leaned forward. ‘My client has answered your question unequivocally, Inspector Nelson. Now, may we move on?’

  Nelson smiled. He was enjoying this. He leaned back in his chair and casually assessed Dr Smolder’s appearance. Fussy-looking. A bit overdone with the yellow bow tie and matching silk hankie. A bit yellow round the irises an’ all. Still, we all enjoy a tipple once in a while, he conceded with a magnanimity born of recent suffering. Hackett, in his clear, factual presentation, had observed that Dr Wilkinson had shivered when she’d realized Smolder had been sat outside her house. Nelson saw nothing disgusting in the man. But then, he thought, you’re not a woman, are you, Jack? His attention was drawn to the long, bony fingers of the academic. There was something prissy, too particular, in the way he neatly laced the fingers together, something creepy about the carefully manicured nails. It’d been so long since he’d taken an interest in such things that he hardly knew what a woman looked for in a man, these days. But he was fairly sure that Smolder didn’t fit the bill.

  ‘I repeated the question to give Dr Smolder a chance to correct himself,’ he said, having finished his leisurely scrutiny of the man.

  ‘I do not need to correct myself. I was not outside Dr Wilkinson’s house.’

  ‘Ah, but you were seen,’ Nelson said in a soft, confidential tone.

  Smolder straightened up — a slight movement, checked part way. ‘By whom?’

  Nelson did not answer at first but stared into Smolder’s eyes. He saw something flutter there — guilt or fear. He raised one hand without looking away, and Hackett handed him the photograph of Ellis arriving at the house. Nelson identified the photograph for the tape with greater ostentation than was strictly necessary.

  ‘This is your car, sir. The index number is quite clear, as you can see. Parked outside Dr Wilkinson’s house, last night.’ He saw the faintest flush of colour in the stretched skin over Smolder’s cheekbones. ‘What were you doing there?’

  For a moment, he thought Smolder would not respond, then, in a thin, dry voice, he began: ‘I was concerned for Helen. I called to see how she was.’

  ‘At the front door, then, were you? The car’s empty,’ he added as an aside to the solicitor, who was ill-placed to see the picture. ‘Only it seems odd that Mr Ellis here — who, you have to admit, looks more than a bit shifty — would check the street and then nip round the back if you were stood on the doorstep in broad daylight.’ In fact, it was twilight, but Nelson felt justified in stretching the point.

  The patches of colour on Smolder’s cheeks grew, so that he looked like an ageing thespian wearing too much rouge. ‘I don’t believe it’s a crime to visit a bereaved colleague,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ Nelson agreed, raising his eyebrows in a fair enough gesture. ‘No, that’s not a crime. But let me put this into perspective for you, Dr Smolder. Hours after this photograph was taken, we had two serious incidents: John Ellis, found dead of a drugs overdose, and the lad who took this picture left for dead after a nasty arson attack,’ he said, deliberately reversing the sequence of events. ‘Now that puts you squarely in the frame.’

  There was a rustle of concern from Smolder’s solicitor, but Smolder waved one long-fingered hand to silence him.

  ‘I wasn’t at the front door,’ he said stiffly. ‘I saw Helen leave earlier and tried to follow her — just to ensure that she was quite safe,’ he added hastily. ‘But she evidently did not want anyone to follow her, and I’m afraid she lost me. I returned to the house. I don’t know what I intended to do — I suppose I was curious. I went down the side passage and tried the gate. It was secure. I was about to leave when I heard that wretched boy Ellis. I didn’t know it was him, but I’d heard footsteps. I tried the gate of the adjacent house. It was unlocked. I hid in there for a few minutes and then the damned photographer arrived. He climbed over the gate — I was sure he would see me, but he was looking the other way. I waited a few minutes more, then I left. I went home, had a large brandy and early night. That, gentlemen, is the truth.’

  Chapter 24

  ‘You were rude to Sergeant Hackett,’ Ruth said, smiling.

  ‘I had good reason.’

  Helen and Ruth sat next to each other on the garden bench. Helen could not stand the proximity of the kni
fe any longer and had escaped into the garden as soon as the police had left. She did not know how to tell Ruth about the knife, and the difficulty had made her uncommunicative.

  ‘Personally, I find it more satisfying to be rude without good reason.’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen said, distractedly, looking up, away from the house, at the neighbouring properties, where she imagined uncomplicated, tranquil lives were being conducted in placid, unvarying rhythms. The evening was still and cold. Iron-grey clouds clustered in the west and the remaining light gleamed dull and flat on the slate roofs.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Ruth demanded.

  ‘Ellis, and that poor boy — the photographer. He didn’t deserve this. Neither of them did.’

  ‘Who’s to say what we deserve? And when did people ever get what they deserve?’ Perhaps she saw a shadow flit across Helen’s face, because she added, ‘You’re thinking Edward did, am I right?’

  ‘I was thinking about my brother, Robbie,’ Helen said. ‘And the bastard who sold him E’s.’

  Ruth inhaled. Nodded. ‘I must remember not to make assumptions about you anymore. Who’d’ve thought that little Helen was such a dark horse?’

  ‘It’s not something you go shouting about. And please don’t patronize me.’

  Ruth pulled a face. ‘Sorry.’

  After a silence, Ruth said, ‘People don’t get what they deserve unless someone takes it upon themselves to make sure they do.’

  ‘Well,’ Helen said. ‘I failed pretty miserably on that score.’

  ‘The dealer? You tried, that’s the main thing.’

  Helen’s eyes raked her friend’s face. ‘I’m not proud of it, Ruth.’

  ‘But you don’t regret it, either — the trying, I mean. You took your destiny into your own hands, did your best to mete out justice where the legal system failed.’