by Paul Charles
Okay?
1. Jean Simpson herself
2. Jean Kerr
3. John Harrison
4. David Buchanan
5. Harvey Lee
(You’ll note that I also threw an additional name in there, a mystery person. I hadn’t a clue who he or she may have been, but I called them Harvey Lee – you know, after Lee Harvey Oswald?)
‘But what about the shop assistants at Musicland?’ I hear you say. ‘Wouldn’t their fingerprints be all over that album? And what about anyone who’d picked up that album while browsing the racks in the record store?’ And you’d be right to ask, of course you would. But then you could never have known that Musicland sold every album shrink-wrapped, could you? So their fingerprints would be nowhere near that album sleeve, would they? No, they wouldn’t.
So, that left only one person whose fingerprints would have been out of place on the album sleeve. My Mary. And if Mary Skeffington’s fingerprints happened to be on the sleeve she’d have been the most likely suspect, wouldn’t she? She was never (meant to be) in Jean Simpson’s flat.
Equally, if the sleeve contained only the two Jeans’, John Harrison’s and my prints, and no prints from any stranger, then that meant either Jean Kerr, John Harrison or I was the culprit.
Can you see my dilemma?
Chapter Thirty-One.
The police were none too happy to be called out. The only crime that had been committed, as far as they were concerned, was one of breaking and entering. WPC McGinley advised me of my crime in no uncertain terms and her colleague PC Jackman grinned devilishly in the background. So, I didn’t advise them about my fingerprint discovery. I thought I needed a bit more information before I could do that. I could always discover it at a later date and then tell the police.
As McGinley and Jackman carried out a search of the premises I noticed Mary standing in the middle of the room, looking like she was a million miles away, lost in her thoughts. She appeared composed to a degree; I couldn’t work out whether she was trying to figure out what had happened or she was merely trying to look like she was trying to figure out what had happened.
Had there really been a murder here? And could Mary really be the murderer? What did I feel about that, about the prospect of Mary Skeffington being the murderer? We’re talking here about a girl I was going to spend the rest of my life with. I was in love with Mary Skeffington; I knew with her that I had found my rainbow. Was I now to accept that she had taken out the person she’d considered a competitor for my affections?
So how would it work if she was the perpetrator? Was I morally obliged to protect her? I couldn’t possibly shop her to the police, could I? Let’s say she had murdered Jean Simpson. Then she’d obviously done so because of what had happened between Jean and me – so I was partially to blame, wasn’t I? Besides, when you marry someone, don’t you take him, or her, for better or worse? At least now I knew what the worst could be. Whoops, I couldn’t believe I’d even just thought that.
I really didn’t know what to think. I mean, was I actually considering covering up for a killer?
Please don’t just gloss over those words – please read them again,
Was I actually considering covering up for a killer?
On top of which, I was planning to spend the rest of my life with this murderer. You see that’s the thing, isn’t it? Murderers are also people. Of course that’s an over-simplification, but my point is that they also have feelings, they also have parents, they also have lovers and they also have lives. Just because they murder someone doesn’t mean that they’ve spent their entire life thinking about killing people. Even though they’ve just broken the biggest law in the land, Thou Shalt Not Kill, I bet they still get annoyed at people breaking the rules. Take stealing, for instance: Do you think that just because you’re a murderer and someone breaks into your flat and steals your records or jewellery or television or whatever, that you’re not going to be annoyed by that? Perhaps even so annoyed that you would seek out the perpetrator to kill them?
I think not. I think most murderers are themselves victims of circumstance. Yes, of course you get the premeditated murders, but think of all the crimes of passion, or frustration, where you just get so mad with someone that perhaps you shove them and perhaps they fall over and, as they fall over, perhaps they accidentally hit their head on the hearth of your fireplace, and then perhaps they die and then perhaps you panic.
Is that what had happened between Mary and Jean? Had Mary discovered our encounters and come round to Jean’s flat to warn her off? Had things got out of control and Mary shoved Jean, and Jean fell and hit her head, and Jean died, and Mary panicked? And disposed of the body?
So how did she dispose of the body, David?
Good question, very good question, in fact – glad to see you’re still paying attention. Let’s just think about that one now. How would she have disposed of the body? The two Jeans’ flat is on the first floor. This meant that their accommodation benefited from neither a loft, nor a basement, nor a garden, which in my book ruled out three of the best possible avenues of hiding or disposing of a body. I could hardly see Mary Skeffington throwing Jean over her shoulder and brazenly wandering up to Wimbledon Common to bury her there or even just dump her in the pond! There’s always the chance that one of those horrible Wombles would be lurking around, tidying up, and would shop you to the local bobby on the beat. Sorry, I hate to be facetious at a time like this, but… it helps me to keep my mind wandering. The more it wanders, the more likely it is that I will stumble upon the truth.
So what would Mary have done? Had there been a fight, was there any telltale blood? I wandered around all the likely spots where an accident could have happened and I couldn’t for the life of me find a spot of blood. That pretty much ruled out the flat. But then if it wasn’t the flat – I mean, if Jean hadn’t met her end in the flat – then that pretty much ruled out Mary, didn’t it? I mean, Mary wasn’t going to ring on Jean’s doorbell and just invite her out, was she? Jean certainly wouldn’t have gone willingly and she was quite feisty, as proven in our red carpet wrestling match. I doubt Mary could have easily overpowered Jean.
I was grasping at straws here, but Mary and I hadn’t spoken much since we’d broken into Jean’s flat. She’d infrequently catch my eye and try to shape an open-lip smile for me. What was she thinking as she wandered around? Was she having the same dark thoughts about me?
Could she be thinking that maybe Jean had been threatening to tell her about our encounters and because I so desperately didn’t want her to, it was me who killed her? Was she thinking why on Earth had he waited till now to tell me about his messing about with Jean Simpson? What exactly did he mean when he said they were only messing about? Was she now considering whether or not she could help me get away with it? Was she also thinking what it was going to be like, living with a murderer for the rest of her life? Try as I might to decipher what she was thinking, her eyes were giving nothing away.
Could she be thinking: How did he kill her? How did he dispose of the body? Okay, so let me help everyone out a wee bit here. Let me put myself in the frame for a minute.
Say, for instance, Jean had rung me up and said she was missing me? Say she said she couldn’t live without our encounters and unless we resumed play she would spill the beans to Mary?
Does that sound plausible so far? Please don’t say yes too quickly!
But, taking this hypothetical scenario to the next level, perhaps I could have suggested to Mary that I was going down the Marquee Club on one of her college nights, so that she knew I was going to be out late. (She’d think nothing of it – she hated coming with me to the Marquee; we’d tried once and it was disaster. It didn’t help that the main act (Terry Reid) didn’t show up and that Jeff Dexter just spun some records.) Anyway, so I go around to Jean’s flat. Do I take a bottle of wine? Yes, of course I take a bottle of wine – I want her drunk, don’t I? She’s going to be more controllable if she’s drunk.
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br /> Now, when I’m in her flat, what do I do? Have I already decided that I’m going to kill her? No, I don’t think so. You see, if I take you down that route, I know that it’s going to be fiction because I could never plan to murder Jean Simpson, or anyone else for that matter. So, I have to go the accidental route, don’t I? I bring the bottle of wine because I want her to loosen up, so that we can have a more honest chat. We start to drink the wine. At this stage she’s probably going to want to enjoy one of our encounters.
Okay, here’s a very important question, David: If she goes down that route – if she’s dressed in her famous tartan miniskirt and gives you a quick twirl and a flash of those exquisite legs of hers – do you join in?
No!
No?
No!
‘Oh, come on. What’s the harm? You’ve said it yourself; you’ve only been messing around?’ I hear you say. (I have to admit, that your voice is starting to sound a wee bit like Richard Harris right about now.)
And I say, ‘No, no way, that was all before I got it together with Mary Skeffington and no one, not even Barbara Parkins, could interest me now.’
‘Right answer. So far so good. So, what happens next?’ you say.
Well, we have a few glasses of wine, I put Bob Dylan on her stereo and we play it through in relative silence as we sip our wine. Dylan is such compulsive listening – his imagery is so vivid, so vital, so stimulating, so real, you see, it’s impossible for me not to tune into him completely.
‘So, how’s it going with you and John?’ I’d have said, after a time.
‘Oh, he’s boring,’ she’d say.
‘But you love him and sometimes it’s more important to find someone who is dependable and caring?’ I would’ve said.
‘But I’m only twenty, David. I want to have some fun. Why can’t we have some more fun?’ she’d say.
‘Well, because we both have other partners and we did have some fun – some great fun – and I think it’s important we keep that as a warm memory and don’t soil it by–’
‘By me running to your girlfriend and telling her about what we’ve been getting up to?’ she’d tease.
‘No, I wasn’t going to say that. I was going to say that we shouldn’t ruin it–’
‘Soil it, you said, soil it,’ she’d say, slyly correcting me.
‘Soil it. Yes, soil it, by pushing on after we’d run out of steam.’
‘Oh, we’d run out of steam had we, David?’ she’d say, a hint of a tease in her voice as she’d rise up from the sofa to give me another twirl. ‘I know how much you like me in my underwear, would you like to see it better, or do you actually prefer those little flashes I give you? You know, the ones you think are accidental?’
She’d still not be slutty or anything but she’d peel off her black blouse and miniskirt and she’d be down to her bra and pants, walking towards me.
‘Isn’t this the view of me you like? You said you liked the way I kept my treasures hidden didn’t you? You were happy once that my hidden treasures were only seen and experienced by you, weren’t you? You thought it was exciting that the man I was going to marry never got to see these, didn’t you? You thought it was wicked he never touched or kissed what’s in my pants, didn’t you? Here, let me take this off so that you can see my breasts better. Remember how you once said you were amazed how solid they were and how responsive my nipples were? Look, they’re still responsive. You don’t even have to touch them; all I have to do is think of you. Here, let me take my pants off for you. I know how much you love to look at my bush. You always say how silky it is. I’m wet just thinking about you. This time it’s going to be different, David. This time I’m going to keep you. This time I want you inside me. This time I need you inside me.’
She’d kneel down in front of me. I wouldn’t say a word. She’d continue in her gentle northern voice.
‘Here, let me undo your belt and help you off with your trousers – I can see how uncomfortable you are in them. Let me take off all of your clothes so that we’re as close as it is possible for two humans to be. Oh, look at this! I told you that you wanted me, didn’t I? This time it’s going to be different, David. I can do things for you and to you I know no one else will ever be able to do. I should’ve realised after our last time that we could never continue with all that abstaining malarkey. You’re right, they are such sweet memories, and we will both keep them and cherish them and have them in our hearts for the rest of our lives, and we shouldn’t try to repeat them. We have to move on. We’ve passed the point of restraint, David. It’s time to move on, David. You need to be inside me. I can tell. I need you inside me. I’m so ready for you, David. I don’t want you pulling out either; I don’t care what happens. I’m ready for you to really get me.’
She would take my hand in hers. I wouldn’t say a word.
‘Here, feel how ready I am for you, David.’
She’d lean forward to me to engage us in our first kiss. We’d be caught there in slow motion, my hand moving closer and closer towards her, to touch her again. Our faces moving closer and closer together, and she’d be so close that I would feel her breath on my face and our lips would be brushing, and I would feel the beginning of her silky curls with my hand when I’d shout:
‘No!’
And I’d push her away with such force and hate and anger. And she’d be shocked and feel she’d done something wrong, or… or, there had been some kind of an accident, and she’d come back towards me whispering, ‘It’s okay, Pet, it’s going to be okay. Everything will be okay when you really get me.’
And I’d stand up from my chair and she’d take that as a welcoming sign, and my entire body would tense up as she moved closer to me. Again I’d shout ‘No!’ at the top of my voice. There’d be tears in my eyes. I’d grit my teeth and push her back, and she’d stumble away from me and I’d follow her, pushing her again and again, making my point by cutting the air in wide arcs with my hands, like I was swimming, every time I pushed her.
‘Get away from me!’ I’d keep shouting, and for my last shove I’d summon up all the energy and power that I possessed and I would smack my hand straight into her chest so violently that, as she fell away from me, I’d see the white marks my hands had left on her red, flushed skin. There’d be a look of fear in her eyes as she’d lose her balance and start to stumble uncontrollably backwards. She’d be beseeching me with her eyes to do something to help her, but I’d be too angry to do anything other than smirk, as she fell gracelessly from her life. Even though her body would be falling one way, the thud of her head against the wooden mantelpiece would be so forceful and the thump so loud, that her head would deflect to the opposite direction.
I’d still be standing, tense and defiant as ever, my anger building and building, wishing nothing but harm on this body; the body that I once knew so well, the body of which I’d explored every single nook and cranny with my fingers, my lips. I’d wonder, seeing it lying there on the hearth, how this body had once held so many mysteries for me. How the quickest of twirls, or the briefest of flashes of forbidden skin, would arouse me way beyond a point I’d ever dreamed existed.
Now those magnificent proud breasts would be mere floppy bags of skin filled with meat and fat. Her glorious, graceful legs would be inert and gangly. Her once hungry thighs would no longer be inviting. Her once radiant, translucent, taut skin would now be billowing and ashen.
I’d stand there like a gladiator gloating over his conquest. My cheeks would be red as a rage-filled furnace. Not anger at what she had done to me, or wanted to do to me, or what she may or may not have done to Mary Skeffington; no, my anger would be at myself, because once again I had hesitated. It might only have been for a second, maybe even just a split second, but that was all it would have taken for me to betray my beloved. To betray Mary Skeffington.
Then my anger would subside and I’d confront the enormity of what I’d just done… and the consequences. Unless I did something quick to cover my crime, I�
�d lose my liberty. Worse, I’d lose Mary Skeffington forever. This would be my main motivation from then onwards; every single thing I’d do, I’d do it in order to protect my relationship with Mary Skeffington.
So what would I do? With the body, I mean? What would anybody do with an incriminating corpse? You see, if this was premeditated, then our perpetrator would have a contingency plan for disposal of the remains already in place, wouldn’t they? But in a crime of passion, the murderer would have to think on his or her feet.
‘Okay, David, you’ve just come up with a very plausible end for Jean Simpson. So accepting that we acknowledge this fate to be feasible, what did you do with the body?’ I know you’re thinking this – you’re too reserved to voice it, but you really are thinking it, aren’t you?
You’re going to have to give me some time on that one. I mean in my fictitious account there. Let’s see now… I’ve just killed her, so I’m going to have to wait until my heart stops trying to break through my rib cage, before I can start to think logically again and come up with a plan for disposing of the body.
Suddenly, I had snapped out of my musings and was back in the room, watching the police at their work. They seemed somewhat detached to me – you know, thinking that this was something and nothing. WPC McGinley hovered around Jean’s record collection for a few moments. She was careful not to touch anything; she just stood and stared at the three lines of albums, their multi-coloured spines creating a unique pop art frieze.
I had a bizarre thought at that moment. I’m not proud of it, but I feel I should tell you.
I started to wonder who would get Jean’s albums. She’d such a great collection and each and every one of them was in mint condition because, as you know, like myself, Jean took great care of her records. But to whom would they go? Jean Simpson was too young to have made a will, I figured. So did that mean the records and all her other possessions automatically went to her mother? And what would her mother do with those records? Would she give them to Jean Kerr or perhaps even John Harrison? Okay, I confess: I harboured the thought that she might even give them to me.
