by Simon Brett
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
There was a gratifying call at the office the next morning from the estate agent. Two of the couples who had seen the house had made definite offers. Both had offered under the asking price because — and the young man had to overcome considerable embarrassment to get the reason out — there was obviously work needed on the electrical wiring. One of the offers was a thousand pounds short, the other five hundred. Graham instructed the agent to accept the higher offer. The couple, it seemed, were currently living in rented accommodation and, since they had nowhere to sell, the young man looked forward to a speedy exchange of contracts.
Graham then consulted the Yellow Pages and rang round half a dozen Central London estate agents, asking them to send him details of two-bedroom service flats in their areas. He named as his maximum price the amount he had just accepted on the Boileau Avenue house. Without a mortgage to worry about, there was no need for him to try and save money.
Terry Sworder was out of the office communicating with one of his computers while this telephoning went on, and Graham took advantage of the young man’s absence (though why he should care what Terry Sworder thought, he didn’t quite know) to go out shopping.
Some of his purchases were self-indulgent, and others professional. (He found increasingly that plans for the murder were taking over the compartment of his mind which he had previously reserved for thoughts of work.)
He bought some sheets of sandpaper of different grades, a pair of rubber gloves and a Portsmouth Tide Table.
Then he went to Tottenham Court Road and bought a telephone answering machine. From there he got a Tube to Green Park, walked to Farlow’s in Pall Mall and had himself fitted with a pair of fishing waders.
He stopped at a travel agent and picked up some brochures for holidays on the Greek Islands and in the West Indies. At an off-licence he bought a bottle of Pernod, a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream and a bottle of Advocaat. In all these transactions he paid cash.
Finally, he caught the Tube to Victoria and deposited all his purchases in a left-luggage locker.
By then it was after twelve, so he got a cab back to the office. Robert Benham’s regular Tuesday squash court was always booked for twelve-thirty.
There were two glass-backed courts in the basement of the Crasoco tower. Graham walked casually past to check that Benham was playing. Yes, there he was, crouched and absorbed, his legs and arms surprisingly hairy. He played squash as he did everything else, with efficiency, aggression and total concentration.
Graham sauntered along to the changing-room. Play had just started on both courts, so there was no one there. Four sets of clothes hung from pegs.
He recognised Robert Benham’s leather-patched jacket and jeans immediately, and reached into the trouser pocket.
Good. As most people would, Benham had taken his wallet on to the court, but had not taken his bunch of keys. Graham flicked through them, found the one he wanted, wrote down its serial number and returned the bunch to the jeans.
Then he sauntered up to the canteen for lunch.
There was a little locksmith he’d noticed down off Carnaby Street and he went in there after lunch.
The man behind the counter was old, with bushy eyebrows.
‘Do you stock keys for Robson’s padlocks?’ asked Graham.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve got one on our garage door,’ Graham lied glibly. ‘The wife’s only gone and lost the key. Dropped it down a drain, of all things. I ask you. I don’t want to have to saw it through. It’s a perfectly good padlock.’
‘Yes, I stock them. What’s the serial number?’
Graham gave it and the man produced a key.
Easy.
But as he walked out of the shop, Graham felt chastened. He mustn’t talk like that, must curb his high spirits. There was no need to make his lies so elaborate. That bit about his wife was unnecessary and, in the circumstances, stupid.
In an echo of some school sports master, he said to himself, ‘Careful, Marshall, careful.’
He met Stella that evening at a restaurant near Holland Park, which was neutral ground for them, and also well off the Crasoco employees’ circuit.
As they ordered coffee, the waiter asked, ‘Can I get you a liqueur, madam?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Stella. ‘I think I’ll have. . um. . Bailey’s Irish Cream, please.’
Good girl, thought Graham, good girl.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
For the next couple of days Graham Marshall kept a low profile. At work he was quiet, confident that this behaviour would be interpreted as a sign of bereavement. He avoided conflict with Robert Benham and, on the couple of occasions it threatened, bowed subserviently to the other’s will.
At home he conducted a few minor experiments, but most of the time just watched television, eating take-away meals. Now he had a definite offer on the house, he felt no urgency to keep it tidy.
He realised he had made one mistake, when Charmian rang him on Thursday evening. From her tone, she clearly thought he should have rung earlier in the week to enquire after Henry and Emma. Graham gave her some line about being in a bad state and not wanting his grief to rub off on the children, though he knew Charmian’s piercing understanding of him would not accept that. He spoke to Henry and Emma, who sounded like children of a distant acquaintance he had not seen since they were babies. Their manner was polite, distant, but relatively cheerful. Then he spoke to Charmian again and arranged that she should come on the Saturday morning to collect the bulk of their remaining possessions.
He knew why he had made this mistake, and promised himself to be more careful in future. The trouble was that the children no longer played any part in his thoughts. He had written them out of his life as completely as he had Merrily in the weeks before her death. But reality again lagged behind the speed of his imagination. Henry and Emma still existed, and he must go through the motions of still being their father. The separation should not be a sharp break, but a gentle tapering-off of contact. It was a bore, but it was something that he must do. His behaviour must appear what is conventionally known as ‘normal’. Any apparent callousness should be avoided. This was not to save the children suffering, but simply to allay suspicion. The world had certain expectations of him, and so long as he followed the observances of ‘normality’, the world would leave him to his own devices.
Thinking this, he decided he should also demonstrate an appearance of solicitude to his mother-in-law. He didn’t fancy ringing her, partly because their conversation was likely to be vituperative, but, more importantly, because no one would know about the gesture. A call to the doctor would be a less acrimonious exchange, and would also register on a kind of objective Brownie points tally.
Lilian was now under the family G.P., rather than the hospital doctor, and Graham got through just as the young man was closing his evening’s surgery. Oh yes, of course, Mrs. Hinchcliffe. The doctor’s tired mind homed in on her case amongst all the other hundreds he had dealt with that day. Yes he could understand Mr. Marshall’s anxiety. Well, as far as he knew, she was making a good recovery. He would check with the social worker, yes. And how about Mr. Marshall himself? Was he feeling any better? Sleeping all right? Was he managing to grieve?
In a properly subdued voice, Graham assured the doctor that his skills at grief were improving.
On the Friday, mid-morning, he went to see George Brewer. Stella looked up as he entered the outer office and, seeing who it was, rose hesitantly, perhaps in expectation of a kiss.
Graham put his fingers to his lips in a gesture of complicity. Yes, of course, I still feel the same, but keep it quiet at the office, eh?
Stella smiled and nodded.
‘Still all right for tomorrow, though?’
She nodded again.
‘Is the old man in?’
The shift of conversation to office matters freed her from dumb show. ‘Yes.’
‘Anyone with him?’
‘No. Rarely is these days. Surrounded by back-slapping management at all these cocktail parties, and left strictly on his own in the Department.’
Graham smiled, went to his boss’s door, knocked once and entered.
George Brewer looked up guiltily. He had been playing with the suspended Newton’s Balls on his desk. This ‘executive toy’ had been presented to him by his colleagues on his appointment as Head of Personnel. A jocular card had accompanied it, with the message, ‘This’ll give you something to do when you’ve got nothing to do.’ Now those words were all too relevant.
‘Oh, Graham.’ George’s hands flew to pick a circular out of his in-tray. His expression was that of a schoolboy caught masturbating. The slight sheen of sweat that now seemed a permanent feature shone on his forehead. His jacket was slung over the back of his chair and the armpits of his shirt, too, were darkened with sweat. The room held a stale whiff of anxiety.
Graham noticed the discarded jacket with satisfaction. ‘Morning, George. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know. .’
‘Got another of your executive piss-ups today?’
‘No. . no. . nothing today.’ The words seemed to have a wider application than a mere answer to Graham’s question. Then, eagerly, the old man added, ‘Don’t know whether you fancy a drink at lunchtime. .?’
‘Sorry. Got to go out and do some shopping.’
‘Ah.’ George Brewer crumpled again.
‘Actually, there’s something I want to check with you. .’
George looked surprised. It was rarely that anyone wanted to check anything with him these days.
‘Yes, Robert asked me to do a report on the union negotiations. You know, this tedious business about Travelling Allowances for Office Services staff off Central Premises.’
‘Oh yes.’ The old man still looked bewildered.
‘I’ve been sitting in on the meetings and Robert just wanted me to do an update. You know, current state of play. .’
‘Uhuh.’
‘Well, it’s finished, but I thought you should cast your eye over it before I pass it on to Robert.’
‘Oh. Oh.’ The second ‘Oh’ was extremely gratified. It was a long time since George had been consulted on something like this. Over recent years Graham had done more and more of the routine work on his own and, since the announcement of Robert Benham’s appointment, all important documentation bypassed George’s office completely.
In fact, Graham’s report was not important. It was the kind of thing that, in more confident days, George would have dismissed with any airy ‘God, I don’t need to look at that.’
But in his current reduced state, he seized eagerly on any opportunity to maintain the illusion that he was still needed.
He leant over the document. Graham picked up a pencil and moved round behind his boss’s chair, close enough to feel the sting of cigarette smoke in his eyes. Graham pointed with the pencil at a particular paragraph. ‘It’s this bit, really. We haven’t actually had the agreement ratified, but I think we’re safe to take it as read, don’t you?’
‘Well, I … let’s just have a look at it.’ Given the responsibility, George was going to make sure he read every word. He leaned closer over the document.
Graham slipped his hand into the inside pocket of the jacket hanging over the chair. He withdrew George Brewer’s wallet and transferred it into his own jacket pocket.
It was a risk, but he reckoned the risk was small. Besides, he was beginning to enjoy the tease of danger. Moments like his confrontation with Detective-Inspector Laker had been frightening, but the relief afterwards was wonderful. Danger gave him a feeling of extra professionalism. If he could keep his cool under that kind of provocation, he was obviously getting good. He was completely in control, just sailing rather close to the wind.
As this image came to his mind, he thought of Robert Benham and smiled.
He needn’t have taken George Brewer’s wallet. He wasn’t worried about the theft ever being attributed to him, but it did raise the minimal danger of a connection being made between Benham’s death and Crasoco. In some ways, Graham knew he might have done better to steal an anonymous wallet.
But that carried as many dangers, if not more.
First, there was the problem of the theft. He had no skill as a pickpocket and to get caught in the act would be shameful. Again, he couldn’t guarantee the contents of an anonymous wallet. Nor could he easily return it after use, so the theft was almost bound to be reported.
Most important of all, he couldn’t forge an unknown signature without hours of practice. Whereas George Brewer’s he could do in his sleep.
Graham Marshall took the Tube to Marble Arch, which he reckoned was far enough away for anonymity. It was a short walk to the car-hire garage.
‘Yes?’ asked the uniformed girl behind the counter, with the meaningless smile of efficiency.
‘Good afternoon. I’d like to rent a car for the weekend.’
‘Of course, sir. What, that would be three days?’
‘Yes. I’d like to drive it away now, if possible, and return it on Monday.’
‘Fine. What sort of car did you have in mind?’
‘Something fairly small. Ford Escort, that sort of size. Depends how much it costs.’
The girl reeled off a list of models and prices. Graham selected a Vauxhall Chevette. The girl started to fill in a form.
‘Could I have your name, sir?’ ‘George Brewer.’
‘I’ll need your driving licence.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He took out George’s wallet and put the old man’s driving licence on the counter.
‘No endorsements, sir?’
An ugly moment. He had no idea of George Brewer’s record as a driver, but gave a confident ‘No’, which fortunately was not contradicted by the document.
‘This address on the licence is still valid, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘How will you be paying, sir? Cheque or credit card?’
He had thought this one through. Stealing George’s cheque book or using one of his credit cards was not on, as the details of the transaction would be documented and even George, in his current fuddled state, would smell a rat.
‘No, I’ll pay cash.’
‘Well, sir, we ask a fifty pound deposit, and then settle the difference when you return the car.’
Fine. He reached again for George’s wallet and had another ugly moment. He had drawn out sufficient cash for the deposit that morning, but had omitted to transfer the notes from his own wallet.
Nothing for it. The girl appeared to be engrossed in the form. Graham pulled out his wallet, extracted the fivers, and returned it to his pocket.
When he looked back, the girl was staring at him. Damn. He was drawing attention to himself, the last thing he wanted to do.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised with a weak laugh. ‘I’m just disorganised.’
The girl’s expression relaxed, as he counted out the notes on to the counter. ‘Oh, Mr. Brewer, when you pay in cash, we do require some other proof of identity apart from the driving licence.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He opened George Brewer’s wallet and reached into the credit card compartment. He slid something out and looked down at it.
It was a photograph of the late Mrs. Brewer. He felt himself colour as he shoved it back. ‘Damned things. So sticky.’
He managed to slide out an American Express card. ‘This O.K.?’
‘That’ll do nicely,’ she replied with a smile, in parody of the advertising campaign. She wrote down the number of the card.
Ten minutes later, Graham Marshall was driving a pale blue Vauxhall Chevette round Hyde Park Corner. He went down Park Lane and left the car in the underground car park. Then he caught the Tube back from Marble Arch to Oxford Circus.
Stella had just returned to her office from lunch and was brushing her hair when Graham came in, holding a piece of paper.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’ve just done a s
light amendment on that report. Like to show it to George. Is he in?’
‘Still in the bar, I think. He’s in a bit of a state.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Lost his wallet.’
‘Oh no!’
‘He’s just getting so confused at the moment. I asked if he could have left it at home, but he said no, because he must have used his season on the train this morning.’
‘Hmm. Slipped out of his pocket under the desk perhaps?’
‘I’ve had a good look around, can’t see it.’
‘He really is falling apart.’
‘Yes, God knows what’ll happen to him when he actually does retire. He’ll just collapse.’
‘Afraid you may be right. One of the sort who’ll be dead within a year.’
‘Hmm.’ She indicated the paper. ‘Shall I take that?’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll put it on his desk for when he comes back.’
Inside the main office Graham looked around. The required image of executive efficiency didn’t leave many nooks or crannies in the furnishings where objects could lie unseen. He contemplated the waste-paper basket, but it was empty and the idea that the wallet had dropped in by chance stretched the imagination too far. He could put it in a drawer, but that also raised questions.
Mustn’t stay in there too long. To walk out to Stella holding the wallet, and saying he’d found it, linked him too closely to its disappearance.
Oh well, in George’s current state he was more likely to blame himself than imagine outside action. Graham shoved the wallet down between the cushion and the side of his boss’s chair.
Stella smiled as he came out.
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Graham, and winked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The meal had gone well. He hadn’t overstretched his culinary abilities. Two large pieces of best fillet steak he could cope with. Grilled mushrooms he could cope with. Salads and cheesecake he had obtained from the local delicatessen.
The wine was a good bottle of Mouton Rothschild. Stella hadn’t commented on the fact that Graham drank only about a glass of it. Either she hadn’t noticed or she had put it down to a becoming awareness of responsibility in a man approaching a seduction. And she didn’t know that he had touched no alcohol in the pub where they had gone before the meal. She had seen him return from the bar twice with what looked like two large gin and tonics, not knowing that his drinks were untainted by gin. It wasn’t just that Graham wanted to keep his wits exceptionally sharp; he also had no wish to run the smallest risk of being breathalysed on this night of all nights.
