by Simon Brett
Still, I don’t have to put up with it for long, she comforted herself. By this time tomorrow, George will be dead, I’ll be in line to inherit all his money and there’ll be nothing in the way of Trevor’s and my happiness.
She followed George into the kitchen and indicated the bottle of brandy on the dresser. Her intention had been to fill her husband up with the drugged fluid as quickly as possible, but George’s dutiful domesticity made this impossible. He said he’d settle down with a drink once he’d knocked up their little snack. Natalie must be feeling dreadful after what’d happened. She should just put her feet up, and he’d sort out everything in the kitchen. He ushered his wife back into the sitting room, sat her in an armchair, placed another log on the fire and put a glass of champagne into her hand.
Natalie sipped her drink and bided her time. The delay did not worry her unduly. She still felt confident her plans would work. There was no danger that she herself might inadvertently get drugged. Natalie never drank brandy – it was George’s favourite tipple – and her constant dieting, even more important now her body had Trevor to admire it, ruled out the possibility of her touching the brandy butter.
She switched on the television and surfed quickly through the channels, but nothing caught her attention. Jovial game-show hosts in Santa suits did not fit with her current mood and preoccupations. The traditional red costume and beard did give her an idea, though. She and Trevor enjoyed dressing up for sex. Maybe that night she’d make love to Father Christmas. The thought gave her a warm anticipatory glow.
George soon came bustling in with a loaded tray. Boringly predictable, he’d done scrambled egg on toast for them. More satisfactorily, from Natalie’s point of view, he’d also brought in a plate of mince pies and a large dish of brandy butter. The doctored bottle of brandy and a balloon glass were also on the tray.
‘Oh, got something for you,’ George remembered just before he sat down. He disappeared into the hall for a moment, then returned carrying his briefcase.
‘What is it?’ asked Natalie, her curiosity aroused.
George winked mysteriously. ‘Something you’ll like very much. Show you after supper.’
Then, finally, he uncorked the brandy bottle and poured a generous measure into the balloon. He raised it to his wife. ‘To us, Natalie. To us.’
She lifted her champagne glass to his, though she could not bring herself to echo his words.
While he ate, George talked, unworried by the spray of crumbs from his mouth. Natalie had forgotten how disgusting she’d always found this habit of his. Still, that was just another detail which would very soon cease to be a problem for her.
‘So what happened with Trevor?’ her husband asked, a fleck of yellow egg beading the corner of his mouth.
‘It came to an end,’ Natalie lied. ‘I just realized it wasn’t working. I fell out of love with him, I suppose, and then it seemed incredible that I had ever loved him. When I came to my senses, I hated myself for what I had done to you. I knew the whole episode had been a ghastly mistake, so I told Trevor it was over.’
‘Ah.’ George nodded sagely.
‘And you’re fully at liberty to say what you like. God knows, you have the right.’
‘What do you expect me to say?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose “I told you so” would be appropriate.’
George Marshall reached across and took his wife’s hand. The touch of his flesh felt to her like a thawing chicken breast. ‘I’m not going to say anything like that,’ he confided. ‘I’m so delighted to have you back that nothing else matters.’
Natalie managed a weak smile of gratitude.
‘How did Trevor take it?’ asked George.
She grimaced.
‘You said on your phone message you were worried about what he might do. Do you mean you’re afraid he might turn violent towards you?’
Natalie had prepared her answer to this question carefully. If George thought she was in danger, he might be capable of going round to confront Trevor. The last thing her plans required at that moment was heroics from her husband.
‘Not violent towards me, no. I’m more worried he might turn his violence against himself.’ The thought of what she was saying almost made her laugh. Trevor was so uncomplicated, so full of animal vigour, that the idea of his entertaining even a moment’s thought of suicide became ridiculous. Natalie began to enjoy embroidering the lie. ‘He was terribly cut up about the whole business . . . you know, with his wife having walked out so recently. I suppose he kind of thought I was his salvation. Certainly, the affair went much deeper with him than it did with me.’
‘So you’re genuinely afraid he might try to kill himself?’
Natalie shrugged. ‘I hope not. I hope the thought of his two little kids’ll stop him, but . . . yes, I have worried about it. He’s very unstable,’ she concluded, secretly gleeful at the incongruity of her words.
‘Dear, oh dear,’ said George. Then, to his wife’s intense satisfaction, he poured another healthy top-up into his brandy glass. To her even greater satisfaction, he picked up a mince pie, lifted its pastry lid and piled the interior with brandy butter.
Speaking through flakes of puff pastry, George continued, ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, darling. From what I remember of Trevor, I’d think he was an extremely unlikely candidate for suicide. As you say, he’s got the kids to think of, apart from anything else. And, even if he did do something stupid, you shouldn’t blame yourself. Suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness. No one else is ever to blame. It involves only the person who commits the act,’ he concluded pompously.
‘Well, I hope you’re right . . .’ said Natalie, playing out her anxiety a little longer, and noting with satisfaction the sight of her husband decapitating a second mince pie and ladling in the brandy butter.
‘Ooh, now, your present . . .’ George reminded himself. He crammed the whole pie into his mouth and picked up his briefcase. Holding it on his lap with the lid shielding its contents from his wife, he reached teasingly inside. ‘I don’t think you’ll ever guess what I’ve bought you . . .’
Natalie certainly never would have done. She looked with dumb amazement at the silk lingerie set George proudly produced. Trevor enjoyed that sort of thing; she took pleasure in dressing up for their erotic encounters; but George had never shown interest in anything but the most traditional sex – and not a great deal in that.
‘Do you like them?’ her husband prompted.
‘Well, yes, but . . . why did you buy them for me?’
George winked roguishly. ‘I read an article in this magazine about how couples who’ve been married for a long time can . . . as it were . . . recharge their interest in each other.’
Oh my God, thought Natalie, I’m not sure I can cope with this. But then, mercifully, on cue, George yawned.
She waited until he was snoring heavily. To be extra sure, she spoke to him and shook his plump form, but there was no response. Reassured, she went to the phone and told Trevor she needed his help.
Briefly she had contemplated doing the job alone. Though he was chubby, George’s lack of height meant that she could have carried him or dragged him without too much difficulty. But second thoughts decided her that she must enlist Trevor. It wasn’t so much his physical strength she needed as the fact of his involvement. The murder would be their secret, a shared sacrament that would bind them even closer together. In the hopefully unthinkable eventuality of Trevor losing interest in her, Natalie could use the crime to blackmail him back into line.
Trevor was jumpy when he came round at her summons. He had raised no objections when she had spelled out her plans to him, but the reality of what they were about to do made him nervous. Natalie, on the other hand, was icily efficient and in control.
‘Do we take him out straight away?’ asked Trevor tentatively.
She shook her head. ‘I’m just going to go through his pockets first. See there’s nothing that might spoil the picture we�
�re trying to create.’
There was nothing that spoiled the picture. Indeed, as she pointed out to Trevor, there was something that improved the picture considerably. ‘These are letters I wrote to him. Look.’ She pointed to the words. ‘“. . . So far as I’m concerned, anything there ever was between us has long gone . . .”; “why can’t you just accept the whole thing’s over . . .” – this is great – couldn’t be better.’
‘Why’re the letters torn?’ asked Trevor.
‘God knows. He probably started to get rid of them, but then couldn’t bring himself to lose any souvenir of me.’ She made the last five words heavy with irony, then quickly reverted to the businesslike. ‘Right, the tumble-drier hose is in a plastic bag in the hall. You fix that and then come back for him – OK? Got some gloves, have you?’
Trevor nodded, pulled a pair of gardening gloves from his pocket and put them on as he left the room.
He was back within five minutes and bent to hoist up George’s snoring body. ‘No, we’ll do it together,’ said Natalie, also putting on gloves and picking up a rubber-covered torch. ‘You take one arm, I’ll take the other.’
George half woke and mumbled something incoherent as the lovers lifted him out of his chair. His legs even helped them in a loose-limbed shuffle as they guided him out into the frosty darkness. But he didn’t regain consciousness.
Trevor had left the door of the detached garage open. The Volvo was in place. With surprising ease, they manhandled George into the driver’s seat, where he slumped sideways against the headrest. He grunted a little as he settled, but still did not wake.
Natalie handed the torch to Trevor. ‘I’ll just go and get the note and the bottles,’ she whispered.
While she was gone, Trevor ran the torch beam along the passenger side of the car to check his handiwork. One end of the tumble-drier hose was firmly attached with insulating tape to the exhaust pipe. The other end led into the car, clamped in place by the nearly closed passenger-side front window.
Natalie returned and reached unsentimentally across her husband’s body to place the near-empty bottles of brandy and sleeping draught on the seat beside him. Then she drew a folded sheet of paper from her pocket.
‘What does it say?’ asked Trevor.
She opened the letter and held it up to the torch beam for Trevor to read.
TO WHOEVER FINDS ME – and I hope it’s you, Natalie. And I hope what you find will really hurt you, when you see what your cruelty has driven me to. I love you. I’ve always loved you, and the thought of you with someone else is more than I can bear. I’m killing myself the same way that your first husband did – and that’s deliberate. It’s meant to hurt you – to make you realize what an unfeeling bitch you are. I hope the rest of your life is really miserable. I’m glad to be out of it.
Trevor looked up as he finished reading. ‘Pity it’s not signed.’
‘I thought of pretending it was an insurance document or something and getting him to sign, but it wasn’t worth the risk. And the police’d spot it if I tried to forge his signature.’
Trevor nodded. He looked suddenly awkward, young and frightened. ‘So . . . now . . . do we . . .?’
‘Yes,’ Natalie replied firmly. She reached a gloved hand into her pocket and took out George’s bunch of keys. Briskly, she put one into the ignition and turned it. The engine fired first time.
‘How long’re you going to wait till you discover him?’ asked Trevor.
‘Till the morning.’ Natalie slammed the car door, led Trevor out of the garage and closed its doors behind them.
He was trembling in the cold air as Natalie put her arms around him. ‘When did you say the kids get back?’
‘Nine,’ he gulped. ‘Round nine.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll have to be back then. They’ll be very excited. Got to do my full Santa routine.’
‘Eat the mince pie and drink the brandy they leave out for him?’
‘That’s it.’
‘What about the carrot for the reindeer – you don’t eat that too, do you?’
‘Bin it. Have to be careful it’s nowhere they might find it, mind. Spoil the whole boring charade, that would.’
Though his words were light, Trevor was still quivering with shock. Natalie pressed her body against him, and felt his infallible lust begin to replace the fear. ‘Come to bed. I’ve got some sexy new undies to show you.’ She chuckled throatily as she remembered something. ‘But first – go and put on your Father Christmas costume.’
The dressing-up and the bond of their shared guilt brought their sexual pleasure to new heights. When Trevor slipped away at ten to nine, Natalie glowed with fulfilment, and with the knowledge that nothing could now stand in the way of their happiness. She slept surprisingly peacefully and deeply.
At eight o’clock the next morning, anyone who happened to be passing would have seen Natalie Marshall go out of her front door and cross to the garage as if to get the car out. They would have heard her catch her breath as she opened the garage doors, seen her dart in with a hand over her mouth to switch off the Volvo’s engine. They would have heard a scream as she identified her husband’s slumped body, and seen her rush in panic back into the house.
In fact, there was no one there to witness these events, but Natalie knew how important it was to go through the whole scenario correctly. And she knew how important it was to get the right note of shock and hurt into her voice when she rang the police to tell them that her husband was dead.
Detective Inspector Jeavons looked across at the woman sobbing on the sofa in the cottage’s expensively furnished sitting room. ‘And had he ever spoken about taking his own life?’
Natalie Marshall, giving the performance of her life, nodded in anguish. ‘Yes, I’m afraid he had. Particularly recently. Oh God, I feel so terrible about it.’
‘It’s only to be expected, Mrs Marshall. Must be an awful shock for you.’
‘He meant it to hurt me, you know. Doing it right on my doorstep, right here.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said the Inspector, stodgily. He paused. ‘When you went into the garage this morning, Mrs Marshall, you didn’t make any attempt to revive your husband . . .?’
‘No. He was obviously dead. And I couldn’t stay in there – the whole place was full of fumes. Goodness knows how long he’d had the car running.’
‘I assume you didn’t hear it being switched on or anything?’
She shook her head decisively. ‘You can’t hear what’s happening in the garage from inside the house. It could have been any time.’
‘Well, the police surgeon’ll be examining the body now. And my other colleagues’ll be checking out the garage. We’ll know more details soon.’ The Inspector selected his next words with delicacy. ‘Do you feel able to tell me why your husband might have wanted to kill himself?’
‘Jealousy, I’m afraid – and despair. Our relationship was over. I’d fallen in love with someone else. He just couldn’t come to terms with that.’
‘No.’ The Inspector nodded sympathetically and was about to say something else when he heard the front door open. ‘Ah, be the forensic people, I imagine.’
They both looked towards the sitting-room door. It opened, and, with a breezy ‘Happy Christmas, darling!’, in walked George Marshall.
All the colour drained from his wife’s face. The rawness around her eyes, once again created by applications of soapy water, showed stark red in the white mask. ‘George . . .’ she murmured in disbelief. ‘George . . .’
Her husband looked quizzically at their visitor. ‘Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure . . .’
The policeman reached out a formal hand. ‘Detective Inspector Jeavons.’
‘Oh yes? Some problem? Been a burglary locally, has there? I don’t know, you’d think they’d have the decency to spare people over Christmas,’ George burbled on, ‘but then nobody seems to have any values in this country any more. In the old days—’
‘Excuse me,’ the Inspector interposed, ‘but who are you?’
‘What, you don’t know? Sorry, I’m George Marshall.’
‘This lady’s husband?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ The little man looked puzzled by the detective’s incredulous reaction. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Mrs Marshall telephoned us this morning saying that you’d committed suicide in your garage.’
It was George’s turn to look incredulous. ‘What?’
‘Your wife said you’d attached a tumble-drier hose to the exhaust of your car and switched on the ignition.’
‘Good heavens! She must have been getting confused. That’s how her first husband killed himself.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Inspector Jeavons, with a hint of a raised eyebrow.
‘But why on earth am I supposed to have committed suicide?’ asked George in amazement.
‘Mrs Marshall said that you were in despair over her having taken another lover.’
‘Well, I was pretty cut up about it, yes, at the start, but that’s all forgotten now. Natalie and I are back together again. And how – after last night!’ He managed to imbue his last words with unambiguous salaciousness, which he then amplified. ‘Goodness, did she make me welcome – exotic lingerie, stiletto heels, the full number. It certainly felt like Christmas for me! Christmas and my birthday rolled into one!’
He chuckled, then, for the first time since he’d come into the room, looked directly at his wife. He could see how quickly Natalie’s mind was working, as she tried to produce the right reaction to her new circumstances. Any denial of what George was saying was likely to raise awkward questions from Inspector Jeavons about what had really happened the night before. For the time being, shocked silence remained her best policy.
‘So you are saying, Mr Marshall, that you spent last night here with your wife?’
‘Yes. Sleeping in the same bed. Well, not sleeping all the time,’ George added, with another vocal nudge.
Inspector Jeavons turned a stern gaze on Natalie. ‘So, Mrs Marshall, have you been wasting police time? Did you make up this story of finding a body in your garage?’
