by Nicola Upson
He looked long and hard at the murdered man’s face, pale in the fading light, the eyes that had once been so watchful now glazed and dull. It was nearly ten years since they had met at Olivia Hanlon’s house on the night of her death, and Penrose knew that his dislike of the broadcaster originated in a feeling of being deliberately obstructed back then, in a lingering conviction that Beresford was somehow managing her death in the way that Murray was now attempting to manage his. A glass of water stood on the desk by the telephone, next to a Thermos flask and a packet of sandwiches, wrapped in greaseproof paper and apparently untouched, and this small hint of domesticity moved Penrose. Could Vivienne Beresford have done this, he wondered? Her husband’s infidelity was undisputed, and betrayal was a powerful motive, particularly when coupled with the sort of public humiliation that Josephine had described – but was it enough? Then there was Beresford’s mistress to consider – an actress, Josephine had said; if those small domestic touches hinted at a reconciliation in the marriage, the motive passed immediately to another point in the triangle. Penrose sighed, depressed at the prospect of an investigation which would ask him to use a woman’s deepest shame against her, exposing what should remain private, destroying her self-respect and exploiting her fears and her weaknesses, whether or not she was guilty. And the alternative was scarcely more appealing: if a political motive was involved in Beresford’s murder – a strike against the BBC, perhaps, or against the country on a day when the scandal of a high-profile death would make such an impact – the task ahead of him was so enormous that he could hardly bear to think of it.
A glance around the rest of the room told him very little. The boarded floor was scuffed and dirty, and mud and grass had been brought in from outside, mostly by Billy Whiting, Penrose suspected, although they might be lucky with some of the other partial footprints. The side wall opposite the radio controls had been turned into an information board and was covered in maps of the processional route, lists of telephone numbers and a schedule of the day’s broadcast, taken from the Radio Times. He looked at his watch: nearly a quarter to seven, and there was still no sign of Spilsbury. There was nothing else he could do here for the time being, so rather than waste time by waiting, he decided to catch up with the pathologist later and get on with what he needed to do.
Outside, Murray had barely moved from the spot and Penrose wondered if he was going to insist on shadowing him throughout the entire investigation. ‘I’ll need to talk to the engineer who assisted Mr Beresford with his commentary this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to give his name and address to my sergeant?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Is there a recording of the broadcast?’
‘Yes – why?’
‘We need to build up a picture of the hours before Mr Beresford’s death, and anything that can help us do that would be most appreciated.’
‘It seems a little extreme. I don’t quite see how Anthony’s thoughts on the Queen’s dress are relevant to his death.’
‘Even so. Who knew he was going to be here? His immediate colleagues and his wife, obviously, but who else?’
‘Christ, Penrose – anybody who read the Radio Times knew. We published the whole bloody schedule, map and all, so the world and his wife knew exactly where Anthony Beresford would be this afternoon.’ Penrose felt a little stupid for the question, but it was worth the rebuke to see Murray lose his composure for once. ‘We were very proud of our plans for the day,’ the diplomat added more calmly, ‘so naturally we outlined them at great length. As for Anthony’s colleagues knowing his whereabouts, I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.’
‘I’m really not implying anything,’ Penrose said with what he hoped was an irritating civility.
‘Can I see him?’ Murray asked.
‘No, I’m afraid that’s out of the question. The pathologist needs to do his work at the scene, and then the body will be removed for a post-mortem.’
‘Not publicly, I hope. We’ve still got to get through the King’s broadcast, and this isn’t the sort of tarnish we want on the day.’
He gestured towards the broadcast unit and Penrose was astonished at his lack of concern for all that had been lost with Anthony Beresford’s death. Whatever he thought of the dead man’s morality, he had admired the broadcaster professionally and, as a human being, respected his right to live out his life to the last natural moment. ‘Your colleague’s body will be removed quietly and discreetly,’ he said, making no effort now to hide his anger, ‘but we’ll do it for the sake of his dignity, not yours.’
The raised voices threatened to draw the attention of passers-by. Murray took Penrose’s arm and led him further into the shadows. ‘You know what the score is, Penrose,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to tell you how potentially explosive this is. We’re going to be faced with extremely difficult questions when the news gets out, and the Corporation will be subjected to some very unwelcome publicity. I need to be in a position to manage that.’
Penrose thought of the other lives that had been lost that night, of the families whose world had been destroyed in a second because of carelessness or rashness or simple bad luck. He thought of the boy who had died in a fight and the man who might hang for it, and of the four-year-old girl who was a victim of her own childlike curiosity; messy deaths, all of them – unexpected, random and cruelly juxtaposed against a backdrop of joy and celebration. And the more he remembered of the day’s sadness the more sickened he was by the idea that death and loss and grief could be ‘managed’, even by the BBC.
‘You’ll be told the results of the post-mortem in due course,’ he said, ‘and I give you my word that you’ll be kept up to date with all non-confidential aspects of the investigation. In the meantime, if you have any ideas at all about what happened today, I suggest you share them with me now.’ He stared directly at Murray, daring him to confide the dirty little scandal that he seemed so afraid of. ‘Is there anything you know of in Anthony Beresford’s life that might have brought us here? Any professional jealousies? Any private indiscretions?’ Murray was silent, and Penrose watched him trying to gauge how much the police already knew. ‘No? Then if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and break the news to Mrs Beresford.’
10
The chime of the doorbell rang through the house even sooner than she had expected. Vivienne looked at her watch, surprised to find that it was already after eight o’clock. She hadn’t moved for the best part of two hours and the house had grown melancholy around her, nurturing its shadows to match her mood. Reluctantly, she forced herself to stand and look down into the street from the window in Anthony’s study. There it was, the police car she had been waiting for, its engine still running, the light from its headlamps falling softly on the puddles in the road. She looked round, conscious that all the rooms were in darkness, and wondered what would happen if she simply didn’t answer? Would he assume that she was out and leave? Could she suspend the nightmare by ignoring it, at least for a few precious hours?
The bell sounded again, more persistent this time, and Vivienne realised that it was futile to delay the inevitable. She went downstairs, marking her progress through the house by switching lights on in the rooms she passed, fooling herself that she had nothing to hide. By the time she opened the front door, he was already walking away, but he turned back as soon as he heard her. ‘Mrs Beresford?’ She nodded, surprised because he was not at all what she had expected – an expensively tailored suit rather than a uniform, a sensitive face and intelligent eyes that looked at her without judgement. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Penrose from Scotland Yard. I’m afraid I have some distressing news about your husband. May I come in?’
His voice was gentle, sympathetic, and she stood aside to let him pass, confused by how quickly reality had departed from the scenario she had imagined – in her mind, the moment of her arrest had been brusque and detached, with no room for civility or discussion. They stood awkwardly in the hall, and
Vivienne realised how peculiar she must look, her eyes swollen from crying, her clothes still damp from the rain. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked, as if this were some sort of twisted romantic encounter. Her voice sounded strained and nervous, like a bad actress making the best of a terrible play.
‘No, thank you. Is there somewhere we can sit down?’
She led him through to the sitting room and saw him glance round appraisingly, taking in everything from the expensive art to the conventional furniture. Her lack of curiosity must have roused his suspicions already; shock affected people in different ways, but an innocent woman would surely by now have asked him what he meant. She should have mentioned Anthony as soon as she opened the door, but it was too late now and she cursed herself for not thinking more carefully about what would happen afterwards. Why hadn’t she made plans or considered possible options? The answer was simple: she had never truly believed that she would go through with it until it was too late to change her mind. The detective – she hadn’t been listening when he told her his name – waited for her to sit down, then took the seat opposite. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your husband was killed this afternoon,’ he said, and although the words themselves were brutally blunt, his regret seemed genuine. She wondered how many times he had delivered news like this, and if any reaction would surprise him. ‘His body was found just after five o’clock in the broadcast unit on Constitution Hill, and we have reason to believe that he was shot shortly after finishing his commentary. I realise that this will be a very difficult time for you, but I must ask you to help with the police enquiries into Mr Beresford’s death.’
It was impossible to tell from the careful phrasing how much he already knew, but Vivienne found that she was too tired and too frightened to string the conversation along. ‘You don’t need to look any further for your killer, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I can tell you exactly what happened to Anthony, and why. Where would you like me to start?’
He was taken aback – less, she suspected, by the admission than by the readiness with which it was offered. ‘Mrs Beresford, I must ask you to think very carefully about what you’ve just said. Are you confessing to your husband’s murder?’
She got up and left the room, feeling his eyes in her back, knowing that he was trying to gauge whether or not to follow. Her handbag lay discarded on the hall floor and she felt inside to locate the gun, but the cold, heavy weight of the metal in her hand brought back all the revulsion of that moment and she had to fight not to gag again. Unable to take the weapon out, she took the bag through to the sitting room as it was and handed the whole thing over; the policeman looked down at the revolver, but didn’t remove it. ‘It was my sister’s,’ Vivienne said redundantly, just to fill the silence. ‘She was in a line of work where guns come in handy.’ He nodded, and she realised that he knew exactly who her sister was. ‘Anthony removed it from her house when she died, just to avoid any trouble. It’s ironic, I suppose, but how could he have known what he was doing?’ She tried to laugh, but the noise that came out was more of a strangled sob. Horrified, she put her hands over her mouth, desperate to stem the tide of emotion that threatened to overwhelm her, but still the noise carried on. What on earth was she doing? She, who never showed her feelings in public, falling to pieces in front of a stranger? He got up, and she thought he was going to leave her to pull herself together as Anthony had always done on the rare occasions that she cried in front of him, unable to cope with any ripples on the even surface of their marriage. But she had underestimated this quiet, unusual policeman. He put a glass of whisky in her hand and sat down next to her, unembarrassed by the outburst and waiting patiently for it to pass.
‘Why did you do it, Mrs Beresford?’ he asked eventually.
She wished that he would stop using her married name. She had no right to it now, and anyway, that person no longer existed. But he seemed sincere in his desire to understand, and she did her best to explain. ‘He was going to leave me,’ she said, knowing how pathetic that sounded.
‘He told you that?’
She shook her head, and held the whisky in her mouth for a moment, allowing its smoke to burn and focus her. ‘No, I found out. There are some travel tickets upstairs in his desk and a letter from Mr Reith acknowledging his resignation.’
‘He’d resigned from the BBC?’
‘Yes. He had no choice if he was going to end his marriage. We don’t do divorce at the BBC – although it’s preferable to murder, I suppose.’
‘When did you discover all this?’
‘The day before yesterday. I found the tickets by accident while I was tidying his study.’ She had just shot a man, and her need to justify the smaller crime of rummaging through his desk made no sense, but she had already accepted that her world now functioned without logic.
‘And that’s when you made your decision?’
‘Yes.’ The cause and effect which that implied wasn’t strictly accurate but it seemed easier than the truth. How could she possibly explain the years of never quite being good enough, the sense of waste as she watched her life tick by in the shadow of his, the shame of that moment in the green room when even her dignity was taken from her? He might be understanding, but he would never know what that felt like, and she hadn’t the words to tell him.
‘Can I ask you to tell me exactly what happened today? And take your time. Please include everything, even if it seems unimportant.’
Vivienne went through most of the day’s events, sticking to the facts but avoiding how she felt about them, and he listened carefully without interrupting. ‘What will happen to me?’ she asked, when he seemed satisfied with the details.
‘When you’re ready, I’ll take you to Scotland Yard, where you will be asked to make a formal statement. If you repeat there under caution what you’ve just told me, you will be charged with your husband’s murder and held in police custody until your first appearance at a magistrate’s court. That will be in the next day or two. After that, you’ll be remanded in custody, awaiting your trial.’ He didn’t waste a single word, she noticed; his speech was succinct but everything was made to count, and she admired that. Suddenly, she was all too aware of how many words she and Anthony had squandered in their lives – all the lies and the tricks and the meaningless conversations, all the times he had asked her how she was and never really cared, all the breath she had wasted in telling him. ‘You are, of course, entitled to legal representation throughout. Do you have a solicitor?’
‘Yes, but he’s Anthony’s solicitor. They’ve been friends since Oxford, so I hardly think he’ll be rushing to my defence, do you?’
‘Then someone independent. We can provide a lawyer for you, if you prefer.’
‘Is there really any point, Inspector?’
‘There’s always a point in having your side of the story represented truthfully and effectively.’
For a moment, she almost believed him. ‘And after the trial?’
It was the first time that he had let her down. His eyes left hers for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to tell her what he thought of her chances against a jury; after all, everyone adored Anthony Beresford. ‘First things first,’ he said. ‘It’s best not to look too far ahead. The tickets and the letter – do you still have them?’
‘They’re upstairs where I found them.’
‘Will you show me?’
She took him up to the study and opened the drawer, but the paperwork was gone. ‘That’s funny,’ she said, closing it again and opening the next drawer down in case she had been mistaken. ‘I don’t understand. They were all here together.’
‘Perhaps Mr Beresford took them with him?’
‘Why would he do that? He kept all his paperwork here.’
‘Well, don’t worry about it now. We’ll check his briefcase and his office to see if they’re there.’ Was it her imagination, or was there suddenly an edge to his voice? ‘If you’re ready to leave?’
Vivienne looked down at her dishe
velled clothes and mud-splattered stockings. ‘Can I change first?’
‘I’m afraid not, but you’re very welcome to take a change of clothes with you, and to pack a few things that you think you might need. And are you sure you won’t reconsider hiring a solicitor? I’m very happy to wait while you telephone from here.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Then what about someone else? Is there a friend or a family member you’d like to call, just to let them know where you are?’
He was doing all he could to be kind, but he could have no idea of how alone, how isolated, his words made her feel. She realised as he spoke that there was no one in the world she wanted with her, and no one she could trust to be entirely on her side. For a second, she toyed with the idea of calling Danny, but she couldn’t stand to see the look of disappointment in her eyes; it was too big a risk to her already crumbling self-respect. She turned to go upstairs and pack, but something occurred to her at the door. ‘Does she know?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘Millicent Gray. My husband’s mistress.’
‘No, Mrs Beresford. Nobody else has been told yet.’
She nodded, absurdly comforted by this sliver of protocol, a small nod of recognition which put her first. When she was ready, he cautioned her and led her out to the waiting car, and she resisted the temptation to glance up at the neighbouring windows to see if anyone was watching; the shame of last week was nothing compared to what she felt now, and what was still to come. The silence in the car depressed her. She would have been grateful for conversation, but it was not his job to distract her from herself and she looked out of the rain-streaked window, wondering if she would ever see the familiar landmarks of home again.
It took the car some time to force its way along Victoria Embankment, through the crowds that had flocked to see the lights of the Thames at dusk. The calm orderliness of Scotland Yard was almost a relief by comparison. Vivienne was led through a maze of corridors and asked to wait on a hard wooden bench by some sort of reception desk while the detective – Penrose, she was reminded by one of his colleagues – went to talk to his superiors. She was sorry to see him go and the loneliness hit her again, more intense now because her surroundings were suddenly so alien. A blur of faces passed her, glancing curiously in her direction before fading away into distant, unseen offices, and she imagined that the low murmur of conversation was all about her, spreading through the building, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. The atmosphere was uncompromisingly male and she supposed she should be used to that after Broadcasting House, but this was different somehow. No matter how far the BBC had progressed, and how respected it was around the world, she would always see an element of ‘boys and toys’ in its ambitions, probably because she had been there since the early days. But there was an earnestness about Scotland Yard, a sense of real power in the men who moved through its corridors – an institutionalised power over freedom and confinement, life and death, and it terrified her.
