‘You work too hard, darling. It worries me. I’m afraid you won’t have any energy left next time I see you.’
‘You’ve not had any complaints so far,’ Dominic said, back in his best George Sanders form.
‘True.’ She giggled, but then spoke more soberly. ‘Except that …’
‘What? Tell me.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Darling, there’s nothing you can ask of me that I won’t give. Nothing, do you understand? But can you say the same to me? I need to know I mean as much to you as you do to me.’
Dominic sounded uncomfortable. Harry imagined him fiddling with the odious cravat. ‘I swear that you do. I swear it.’
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose I must sound a little overwrought. But I’ve been thinking long and hard. If only we could be together permanently.’
‘We talked this over the other day. I thought we agreed it isn’t possible just yet.’
‘But why? Each day I care less about Steve than I did the day before. And you don’t love Emma; you’ve told me time and again that ever since Marcus was born, she’s only had eyes for him. Of course, she was forty when she had him, it’s understandable in a woman of her age. But she’s got what she wanted out of the marriage. It’s over in all but name, can’t you accept that?’
‘Don’t forget Emma and I are in business together,’ he said defensively. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I really must go. Please be patient. These things can’t be unravelled overnight. It’s bound to take a little while. We need to play a waiting game.’
‘That’s the trouble, Dominic. I’m no good at waiting. I keep thinking – if only we were free. If only we were free.’
Click.
‘Eight nine, eight nine.’
‘We must talk.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Roger, it’s barely five minutes since you couldn’t summon up the courage to utter a single word to me. Now you want a meaningful conversation? Forget it. We have nothing to talk about, do you hear? Nothing at all.’
Click.
‘It’s me again.’
‘Listen, Roger, I liked you better when you kept to your vow of silence.’
He was ready to plead with her. ‘Please don’t hang up again. You can’t imagine what it was like in Ashworth or everything I’ve been through since you walked out on me. You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘What did you expect after what happened? Okay, I’d had an affair, so what? It happens all the time. He was a married man, he was always going to return to his nice little wife and family. It was no big deal.’
‘I felt so betrayed. You told so many lies. I sometimes think you can’t tell the difference between truth and fantasy.’
‘Oh yes? I certainly came to understand the truth about our marriage, Roger. The bitter reality of finding out that my husband was a schizophrenic who carried a knife and wasn’t afraid to use it.’
‘I was so confused, Becky. I didn’t know what I was doing.’
‘All he’d done was take me to bed! I was unhappy and he comforted me. We barely knew each other. It was only a fling. Yet you walked up and slashed at him in a crowded pub. I’m sorry, Roger, but that finished everything so far as I was concerned. There’s no way I was willing to end up on a mortuary slab next time you had a jealous turn. Do me a favour, will you? If you really care about me, even a little, leave me alone to my new life.’
Ashworth. The name had struck Harry like a slap on the face. Ashworth Hospital was out at the other end of Liverpool. It was no ordinary hospital, but rather home to several of the most dangerous men and women in Britain, as well as some of the saddest. From time to time he was summoned there to represent patients who were on remand or applying to a mental health review tribunal for their release. He found it a chill and eerie place. Inside the security cordon, you could almost believe you were in a public park. The single-storey buildings were separated by strips of greenery on which stood a group of sculptures, disturbingly surreal. Scarcely a sound could be heard – yet he never felt at ease. There was always the chance that violence would flare. In the interview room he took care to sit within a stride of the door. Never mind the alarm bell: he reckoned that in case of trouble his best bet was to leg it like hell for the exit.
As he ate his meal, the tape played the next conversation between Becky and Dominic. It soon became clear that the call was little more than a chance for her to moan about her husband. Steven was boring, he had lost interest in having sex with her. Dominic expressed amazement and sought to shift the conversation to the safe subject of their next bedtime romp. But Becky was equally determined and began to harp on about Steven’s selfishness and lack of generosity.
‘He’s so tight-fisted! I can’t remember when he last took me out for a meal, let alone offered to buy me a new dress. If I didn’t earn a bit of money from my job at the Medical Centre, I’d have to beg every time I wanted a new pair of tights.’
Dominic made sympathetic noises and she said, ‘You see, not everyone’s as generous as you are, darling. Ridiculous, though, isn’t it? What’s money for, if not for spending? After all, you can’t take it with you. And, I mean, none of us know what lies waiting round the corner, do we? Each day might be our last.’
‘Better make sure you keep clear of black cats, then.’
‘I’m not joking! Life is short, accidents do happen. There are times, you know, when I think all our problems would be solved if … well, if something happened to Steve.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but … just suppose he wasn’t here any more.’
‘You mean – dead?’
A pause. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
He laughed uncertainly. ‘Everything you’ve ever said about him suggests he’s an inconsiderate so-and-so. I can’t see him stepping under a bus for the sake of keeping us happy.’
‘No, no, of course not. And yet … if he did, things would be so different. Financially, apart from anything else. It’s not just a question of his share of the business – there’s the insurance. He and I each have heavy policies on our lives. I must be honest, every now and then I tell myself it’s a pity that I won’t be collecting. I even …’
‘Yes?’
‘Dominic, we’ve always agreed, haven’t we, that we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other?’
‘Yes, darling, but what …?’
‘I want to know your innermost feelings and I want you to understand mine. No matter – no matter how shocking. Total honesty, that’s how it must be between us. Always.’
Dominic hesitated before replying. ‘What’s on your mind, Becky?’
‘It’s only that sometimes, when he’s been particularly rotten to me, I can’t help saying to myself that if only there was a way, a simple way to make sure he wasn’t around to keep making my life a misery, if only I knew what to do – I would do it. Does that sound terrible, Dominic? I’m only human. I can’t help myself.’
‘It’s a fantasy,’ he said quickly. ‘That’s all. A fantasy.’
For a long time she was silent, before finally she said, ‘But wouldn’t it be wonderful if it came true?’
Stop there, Harry thought, stop right there. He had few illusions about the innate goodness of his fellow men and women. Idle daydreams were one thing. Everyone was prey on occasion to dark imaginings about the harm that might befall others and benefits that might be reaped from their calamities. But most people shied away from the consequences of their shameful speculations; they could draw a line, however wavering, between right and wrong. What bothered him was that he was becoming unsure about whether Becky herself was able to draw any lines at all.
Suddenly he remembered that Steven Whyatt had been taken poorly the night after his visit to Fenwick Court. He’d blamed it on something Becky had cooked for him: a simple case of gastric trouble. But what if there was a more sinister explanation? After all, Becky worked in a medical centre and, for all the reg
ulations about the safe storage of drugs, would be likely to have access to all manner of poisons. Might she have doctored Steven’s meal? He found himself tensing as he waited for the next call.
‘You know, I was thinking over what we talked about yesterday.’
‘Becky, we agreed not to discuss it again. It’s crazy. Best forgotten.’
‘Oh, you’re right, of course you are. And yet … it’s exciting, too, isn’t it?’
‘Don’t be silly, darling.’
‘Come on.’ She was wheedling now. ‘You can’t pretend with me. I know the whole idea turns you on. I could see it in your eyes, feel it in your hands.’
‘You’re letting your imagination roam too far. I never encouraged you. This has gone on long enough. Fantasy is fine. But this is different. Serious.’
‘That’s why it turns me on.’
‘We can’t … listen, we couldn’t possibly …’ His voice trailed away.
‘Say it, why don’t you? Darling, don’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid!’ Dominic said, though Harry was convinced he was lying. ‘It’s just that you mustn’t keep on like this. It’s dangerous, don’t you understand?’
‘That’s half the fun, isn’t it? The danger. The risk we might be caught.’ She paused. ‘I’ll say it if you won’t. The chance we would both be found guilty of murder.’
Chapter Nine
As the tape wound to its conclusion, Harry gnawed at his fingernails until they began to bleed. Surely she didn’t mean it, surely she was still simply playing a game? Dominic was desperate to believe that; his instant response to her mention of murder was to laugh with false heartiness and hastily change the subject. Yet she kept coming back to it, brushing aside his love talk with barely concealed irritation. Was she crazy enough to mean what she said?
He switched off the machine and stared out through the window. He’d gazed at the view a thousand times before and yet he always found something new in the way the light caught the surface of the river. The low sun of late evening was glinting on the ripples. Even at this hour the temperature was in the high sixties. Heat affected people, made them do strange things. Lust and money were powerful motives for murder at any time and in this weather he found it easy to believe that his client’s wife had been seized by midsummer madness. What he could not guess was whether it was only a passing phase or a potentially fatal affliction.
Dismay jolted him like an electric shock as he realised that he might imminently become a victim of crime himself. He had remembered that he had left his briefcase in full view on the back seat of his car. All the security cameras in the world would not deter a budding Shaun Quade from trying his luck in the Empire Dock car park every now and then. He raced downstairs, before some opportunistic lad smashed a quarterlight, stole the case, found its contents worthless and tossed the whole lot into the river in disgust. His luck was in: the case was still sitting patiently where he had left it. To celebrate, he decided to nod in the direction of exercise and sprint back up the stairs to his flat. He was in sight of the third-floor landing when he caught his heel on the edge of one of the steps and fell.
At once he knew that he had damaged his ankle again. In his footballing days he had suffered with Achilles tendon problems and he was swamped with gloomy recognition of the cause of the pain. With the utmost difficulty, he hauled himself up and, bent double, negotiated the last few stairs. Leaning against the wall for support, he hobbled along the third-floor corridor, swearing with frustration at the stupidity of the accident. Back inside his flat, he dug out a dusty old first aid box, swallowed a couple of aspirins and applied a cold compress to his ankle before wrapping it in a rudimentary crepe bandage. Slowly, the waves of pain began to ebb and he told himself that he had probably suffered a sprain rather than a tear. All the same, it would be a good idea to seek a second opinion. Especially since the silver lining to this particular cloud was that he now had a good excuse for making the acquaintance of Becky Whyatt. A visit to the Empire Dock Medical Centre was called for.
He lay on his bed with the injured ankle up in the air. Night had fallen, but he had kept the curtains open so that he could look out at the Mersey. The lights on the Wirral shore reflected on the black water, making it seem sinister. His mind turned to a favourite movie, Rear Window, and James Stewart, similarly incapacitated, passing the time by watching a murderer go about his business. But at least Stewart had Grace Kelly to kiss him better and a view of the neighbouring apartment blocks that teemed with life as well as death. Harry could see and hear nothing of the other flat-dwellers: they were strangers, like the girl he had shared the lift with earlier in the evening. There might be a dozen equivalents of the film’s Miss Lonelyhearts for all he knew, and the walls of the old converted warehouse in which they all lived were so thick that murder might be done a dozen times whilst he slept soundly in his own bed.
What should he do about the tape? James Stewart, he remembered dozily, had struggled to persuade people that he had seen a crime in the course of commission. How would Steven Whyatt react when he learned that his wife was contemplating murder rather than divorce as the solution to their differences? The first step would be to talk to Whyatt, let him listen to the tape and then decide what to do. A task for tomorrow: but only once he had seen Becky for himself.
When he awoke, the aching of his ankle prompted him not to delay in searching out his doctor’s number. He found himself wishing he had come up with a simpler excuse for satisfying his urge to meet the woman whose voice he now knew so well.
‘Thank you for calling Empire Medical Centre. This is Becky speaking, how may we help you?’
It seemed odd at last to be talking to her rather than simply listening to her private conversations and Harry found his tongue tied. He wanted to say I gather you have murder on your mind, just to test her reaction, but his nerve failed and he stammered something unintelligible.
‘I’m ever so sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’ She was perfectly trained. No hint of impatience, no clue to the real woman behind the bland words.
‘I’m a patient of Dr Jelf,’ said Harry. ‘Can I come in to see him this morning?’
‘I’ll put you through to Tracey in Appointments.’
Tracey in Appointments proved to be adenoidal and a little less keen to please, informing him that Dr Jelf was fully booked, but when Harry pleaded grave suffering, she reluctantly offered him five minutes at the end of morning surgery, her tone making it clear that he was fortunate indeed.
A haze of heat was shimmering above the river. On the deck of the ferry heading towards the Pierhead he could see passengers in shirtsleeves, soaking up the sun. On a day like this even Eastham’s oil terminal seemed majestic and the redundant shipyards of Birkenhead looked less forlorn. Sipping a cup of strong coffee, he eschewed the pleasures of Approach The Bench and started to leaf through back numbers of The Law Society’s Gazette. All too often professional journals lay in his office and flat still in their virgin shrink-wrapped state, gathering dust until such time as the legislative developments they described were repealed and Harry could safely throw them away. A gesture towards catching-up gave him a virtuous glow. The Lord Chancellor, he saw, was advertising for judges and he flirted with the idea of submitting an application, if only to see how long it would take for the vetting process to weed him out. He tried to imagine life in the judgement seat, pretending not to know the names of the icons of popular culture and making the occasional outrageous remark with the aim of teasing the politically correct. Perhaps on second thoughts he ought not to ask to be considered. There was always a danger that he might be appointed. Abandoning his magazine, he rang the office to let his secretary Lucy know he would be in late before calling Whyatt at the garden centre.
‘I’ve listened to the tape and I must discuss it with you. Can you come round to see me today? Two o’clock, perhaps?’
Whyatt hesitated for a moment, as if calculating pros and cons. ‘If you think it’s
desirable.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Can I ask …’
‘I’d rather not talk about this on the phone, if you don’t mind. There’s been too much of that already.’
He hobbled round to the surgery in good time. In his younger days, a visit to the doctor’s had meant a long wait in a small stuffy room whose dying pot plants were a poor advertisement for the practice, being wheezed at and coughed over by invalids in search of a miracle cure for old age and poverty. Times had changed. Health care now was all about commerce and general practitioners had become fund-holders as familiar with the Financial Times as the Lancet; they were paid according to the number of people on their books and found it advantageous to register those whose ailments were cheap to cure. The Empire Dock Medical Centre was spacious and comfortable; piped music played in the background and the tub of greenery by the entrance was worthy of Sissinghurst. Harry opened the inner door and came face to face with Becky Whyatt.
He knew she was twenty-seven and, on the evidence of a quick glance, her figure seemed to live up to its advance billing from Ossie Fowler; yet with her short dark hair and delicate features she could have passed for at least ten years younger. She was perched behind a vast desk reading a paperback entitled Rio Romance, but at his approach she looked up and slipped on a smile of welcome. Her guileless blue eyes reminded him of a china doll. It was almost blasphemous to suppose that such an innocent appearance could be a mask for murderous desires.
Coughing to cover his confusion, he introduced himself and she consulted the screen in front of her. Presumably it revealed at the touch of a key his entire personal history. ‘Ah yes. You are rather early, of course, but then you haven’t had too far to walk, have you? Although by the look of that ankle, it must have been quite an effort. Anyway, the doctor will be with you just as soon as he can. If you’d like to take a seat and make yourself comfortable with a morning newspaper or a magazine?’
Eve of Destruction: A Harry Devlin Mystery Page 9
