The High Flyer

by Susan Howatch

  “The truth is I think Kim’s lethal, Carter, and regardless of what happens between us I think you should stay away from him both now and in the future. Or, as the typical author says to the long-suffering editor when queries are raised about the manuscript: ‘I’m right and everyone else is wrong . . .’ ”

  V

  “You’re very persuasive,” I said, “but there’s got to be a flaw in your theory. I can’t believe I could have been involved with Kim for so many months without realising he was a monster.”

  “Why not? This man’s an old hand at the double life and an accomplished liar. Just because you didn’t cotton on to him straight away doesn’t mean you were dumb, Carter. It just underlines how formidable he is to take in a woman like you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Okay, there is a flaw in my theory that the stabbing was intentional, and if I’m honest I’ve got to admit it. Can you remember what happened after Nick told Kim to put down the knife? Kim transferred the knife from his left hand to his right and used his left hand to wipe his forehead. Then he transferred the knife back to his left hand again.”

  “So?”

  “The point is that if he’d been waiting, poised for the opportunity to attack me in a way which could be passed off as an accident, he’d have kept the knife in his right hand, wouldn’t he? He’d have wanted to be ready to strike.”

  “But he was,” I said, and my voice was horrified. “He’s left-handed.”

  VI

  After a long silence I said: “You’ve certainly spun a nightmare scenario appropriate for a writer of fiction. But something tells me real life isn’t as colourful as that.”

  “But truth is always stranger than fiction! If a novelist can imagine it, you can bet someone’s out there doing it—and in even more glorious Technicolor!”

  I did not answer. I just stared down into my empty coffee-cup.

  Finally Tucker said: “Have we reached the point where you deliver your own verdict on Kim?”

  “Believe me, I’d like nothing more than to make up my mind but I don’t see how I can do that without knowing what it is he’s trying to hide.”

  “So what you’re saying is—”

  “I’ve got to see him. That’s the one thing Nicholas, Lewis, Robin and Val all agree on, and I’m sure they’re right. I’ve got to excavate this truth.”

  “At the Healing Centre, in a safe, controlled environment?”

  I ran my fingers through my hair in despair. “But can’t you see? Such a meeting would be worse than useless! This is where your view of Kim as the boardroom barracuda fuses with the Kim I know, and I can tell you that he’ll never reveal the whole truth now unless he and I are on our own. He’s fought too hard to conceal this information for it to be anything less than dynamite, and if you think there’s any hope that he’ll confess everything meekly in front of a bunch of witnesses—”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “See him on his own, of course.”

  “You’re fruity-toots,” said Tucker appalled.

  VII

  My plan, which had been steadily evolving during my interviews with the Healing Centre’s personnel, was in fact a model of reason and logic. First I would write to Kim with apologies for my long silence and say that now I was feeling better I was anxious to give him a helping hand, even though I was not quite ready to resume married life; would he like me to pick him up in the Mercedes when he was discharged from hospital?

  Lewis had told me that Kim was willing to live at the Oakshott house while I made up my mind about the future. In a startling but characteristically moral move, Sophie, who had gone to great lengths to deprive him of the house at the time of the divorce, had restored the place to him in the new will she had made afterwards. Apparently she had reasoned that having made the statement that he had deserved to lose the property, she should acknowledge at her death that the house had been acquired solely with his money.

  “. . . and after suggesting the pick-up from the hospital,” I was explaining to Tucker, “I’ll offer to drive him to Oakshott. In my letter I’ll make it all seem perfectly natural, so natural that he’ll never suspect he’s being set up for truth-extraction—I’ll say: ‘This way you’ll not only get your car back immediately but I’ll have demonstrated that I want to be constructive about the future. Hoping you find this suggestion helpful, darling—thinking of you constantly__’ ”

  “This plan stinks.”

  I was exasperated. “So what do you want me to do? Give you a rose to smell?”

  “What’s the name of that old movie—the one where the cool blonde is all alone in the isolated house with the husband who can’t wait to strangle her?”

  “Very funny! Look, if you think I’m going the whole way to Oakshott, you’re nuts. I’m going to bail out long before then, and if you’d only listen quietly instead of whinnying like a whippet—”

  “Wrong verb. Horses whinny. Whippets whine.”

  “Oh, stop trying to edit me, I’m not a manuscript! Damn it, Tucker, what’s your problem? You think I can’t handle corporate bruisers? You think I’ve never squared up to one of these guys before? Hell, in the past I’ve twisted every tooth from a boardroom barracuda with one hand tied behind my back!”

  “Oh my God,” said Tucker in an actor’s aside. “The next line’s going to be: ‘My penis is bigger than yours is.’ ”

  “Now just you listen to me—”

  “No, just you listen to me, Ms. Graham! If you think I’m going to let you put this crazy scheme of yours into action—”

  “But you haven’t yet heard the whole plan! Now calm down and stop yelping—and while you’re doing that, why don’t we stop drinking black coffee? We’re so wired now that we could generate enough electricity to floodlight St. Paul’s.”

  “How about some Scotch?”

  “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said for some time.”

  He mixed two modest Scotches and filled both glasses to the brim with water.

  Then we resumed our battle.

  VIII

  “Please try to bear in mind,” I said, “that this is a thoroughly rational plan made by someone who has a legally trained mind and who is now bored with her temporary role of helpless, water-logged fluffette. I’m rising like a phoenix from the ashes.”

  “I’m getting confused with all these creatures which are roaming around,” complained Tucker. “We’ve had whippets that whinny, toothless barracudas and now, for crying out loud, we’ve got an ashy phoenix! Can’t we just put them all in the nearest zoo and focus on how you survive your husband?”

  I ignored him to resume my presentation. “Let me just remind you of a couple of things,” I said. “First of all Lewis has been busy convincing Kim that he—Kim—has to level with me if the marriage is to have a future, and I believe Kim himself will come to see this is the only way forward—provided that he and I can be alone together when confession time comes around. Second, it’s vital that Kim should think I’m one hundred per cent sincere instead of ambivalent as hell—otherwise I’ll get nowhere. And that’s why the meeting mustn’t seem engineered in any way; it’s got to flow naturally out of the situation and what could be more natural than that he should want his car transferred from Harvey Tower to that ghastly house at Oakshott? It’s also natural, believe it or not, that I should offer to give him a helping hand when he comes out of hospital. The truth is we’ve been very close very recently, and if I now make this gesture of goodwill via a letter in which I call him ‘darling’ Kim’s not going to find it unbelievable. The word ‘darling’ is a carrot, of course, leading the donkey on to . . . okay, okay, let’s keep animals out of this. I’ll just stress that although the marriage has taken some terrible knocks, marriages do recover even from the most appalling blows (someone said that to me the other day—was it Nicholas?) and since Kim’s apparently keen for the relationship to recover, he’ll want to believe I’m keen too. Are you with me so far?”
>
  “Uh-huh. You turn up at the hospital, you present him with the car-keys and he drives you to a deserted spot in the Surrey Hills where he—”

  “Could you save this plot for one of your novels? Kim and I drive away from the Maudsley but he’s not at the wheel—I am. How can I be sure he won’t want to drive? Because according to Val, who’s checked with the doctors, Kim’s on a cocktail of drugs which makes driving out of the question. So I offer to drive, a move which puts me in total control—”

  “When do you bail out?”

  “At the Reigate exit of the M25.”

  “The M25? Surely that’s miles out of the way!”

  “Yes, but the point is that there’s a hotel near the Reigate exit at the top of the hill, and I’m going to take him there for lunch—we did that once before, very successfully, when we drove into the country for a weekend spin, so there’ll be a sentimental memory to make the diversion look completely natural.”

  “And over lunch you excavate the truth?”

  “Exactly. In a public place with other people present. Then after I’ve extracted the truth, no matter what the truth is, and even if I decide he’s a blameless victim who deserves a reconciliation , I’ll pull the plug on the meeting so that I can discuss the results with the St. Benet’s team. I’ll tell him I just can’t face that house at Oakshott—that’ll be true enough—and then I’ll bail out by driving away in my own car which I’ll have brought down the night before and left in the hotel car park. Kim can always get a taxi to take him the last few miles to Oakshott, and meanwhile I’ll be racing back to the City as fast as a bat out of—okay, forget the bat. But this is a foolproof scheme, can’t you see? Raise any objection you like, Tucker, but I can’t believe there’s a single one I won’t be able to answer . . .”

  IX

  We sipped our Scotches and argued back and forth for some time.

  “Something will go wrong,” said Tucker obstinately. “You’ll run out of petrol on a sinister, woodsy stretch of the M25.”

  “Not if I’ve filled the tank beforehand. And anyway, why should Kim instantly want to harm me when he’s so keen for a reconciliation?”

  “He could be faking the desire for a reconciliation in order to get hold of you. Listen, I think you ought to be wired for sound. Then if anything goes wrong—”

  “Forget it. This barracuda has a built-in radar system which is constantly scanning the horizon for signs of danger, and if he has any suspicion at all that I’m not playing straight with him his radar screen will fill with blips. I’m already planning to wear a clinging tank-top and skin-tight stretch-pants so that he can see I’m concealing nothing.”

  “Lucky Kim. But surely the police should be involved? After all, they must have their suspicions of him, and once he leaves hospital they’re bound to welcome the chance to give him a real grilling, particularly since the inquest into Sophie’s death will now be reconvened.”

  “Do you seriously think Kim would be unaware of a bunch of stray males hanging around the hotel and trying to eavesdrop on our conversation?”

  “But if you don’t tell them what you’re up to, aren’t you guilty of obstructing justice? If Kim killed Sophie—”

  “I don’t think he did. I don’t think he killed her either accidentally or on purpose.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Reason and logic. If he was responsible for that death I believe he would have removed the body and dumped it somewhere so that it wouldn’t have been discovered for a while. Then no one would have been able to tell exactly when she died and his alibi with Warren Schaeffer would have looked a good deal healthier.”

  I paused but when he said nothing I added: “I’m sorry, Tucker, but I just don’t believe he’s the villain you think he is. I can’t imagine myself ever trusting him again, but he’s my husband and not so long ago he made me very happy. In some sense, some very real sense”—I stumbled but recovered—“this slice of the chaos is just between him and me. I don’t believe I’m in the middle of a Hitchcock murder film, and I don’t believe I’m in the middle of one of your adventure novels either. I think this is primarily the story of a talented late-twentieth-century man who dined with the Devil and then found himself stuck with a bill which bankrupted him. I think it’s about the false gods we worship in our society and about the price we pay when we flush our morals down the john. I think it’s about . . . well, never mind all that.”

  I paused again, needing to drum up some strength before I could add levelly: “The legal situation’s simply this: I’m not obstructing the police by concealing information; I’ve already told them all I know. I’m not perverting the course of justice by scheming to prevent Kim’s crimes (if any) coming to light; if he admits to anything criminal I’ll inform the police afterwards. Meanwhile it’s not a crime to refuse to be wired for sound and it’s not a crime to fail to tell the police that I’m going to have a serious talk with my husband. I’m not breaking the law, I assure you. My hands are clean.”

  There was another silence before Tucker said quietly: “But don’t you understand, my darling, how worried I am about your safety?”

  I stood up and said: “It’s time to go.”

  X

  “Sorry, I blew it. Wipe that endearment.”

  “I assure you I’m not fluffing out just because—”

  “Carter, you’re not proposing to keep this plan from Nick and Lewis, are you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “But do you really think they’ll allow you to go through with it?”

  “What’s all this about ‘allow’? Since when have I needed any man’s permission about how to run my life?”

  “Oh my God! Listen, sweet pea. The feminist nutterguff is as cute as Shirley Temple singing ‘The Good Ship Lollypop,’ but it’s totally irrelevant here, can’t you see that? Good friends are going to want to protect someone they care about, regardless of whether that someone’s male, female or hermaphrodite . . . Are you really leaving now?”

  “Yes, all this gender-talk’s making me nervous. But many thanks for dinner—and for listening—”

  “Are you okay to drive?”

  “Sure.” I had suddenly realised the sexual temperature was rising so fast that I had to make a quick exit before I reached the point of liquefaction. By this time I was in the hall. I reached out to raise the latch on the front door, but it seemed to be trapped by a security lever. Feverishly I struggled with the mechanism.

  His hand slipped past me to push the lever upwards. For a second his forearm brushed mine and his free hand slipped around my waist as he stood behind me. I felt him kiss the nape of my neck but all he said was: “Bon voyage.”

  I gripped the hand at my waist very hard. Then I let go, wrenched open the door and blundered outside into the heavy, humid night air.

  God knows how I ever made it back to the Rectory.

  XI

  “I hear what you say about wanting your conversation with Kim to be private,” said Nicholas carefully after breakfast the next morning, “and I take your point that this private conversation will be conducted in a public place, but since many unpleasant scenes do erupt in public places, perhaps Eric’s right to raise the issue of security.”

  It was a Saturday, and as the Healing Centre was closed Nicholas was in no rush. We were in his study at the Rectory, and Lewis was also present. The morning was very hot; the windows were open to air the room but since the City was deserted on weekends, Egg Street was eerily silent. Neither of the men was in uniform, a fact which made them look more individual, more off-beat and, in Lewis’s case, younger and racier. Nicholas wore a blue T-shirt over his loosest pair of jeans, while Lewis was wearing an open-necked white shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a scruffy pair of dark trousers.

  I responded to Nicholas’s comments by saying: “I’m sure Kim won’t harm me.”

  “I’m equally sure the doctors wouldn’t discharge him if they thought he was dangerous,” agreed Nicholas rea
dily enough, “but nevertheless after that disaster at your flat I’m very conscious that a scene can start innocuously yet end by swinging right out of control.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” said Lewis, allowing me no time to argue. “We can provide you with a bodyguard—there’s a nice little firm in Stepney which we use when we counsel battered wives and the husbands take umbrage.”

  “And this could dovetail neatly with your plan,” added Nicholas, following on so smoothly that I still had no chance to speak. “The bodyguard would be waiting at the hotel and could keep an eye on you during the conversation. When you stand up to go, the bodyguard could make himself known to you and you could introduce him to Kim as a chauffeur hired to complete the journey to Oakshott. This move would ensure that Kim doesn’t make a scene when you leave.”

  “An excellent idea!” said Lewis, completing the seamless two-hander.

  They turned to look at me expectantly.

  I wanted to take an obstinate line, but in the clear light of day and unfortified by a liberal indulgence in wine, I felt rather less insouciant than I had felt during the dinner at St. Eadred’s Vicarage.

  I agreed to hire the bodyguard.

  XII

  “Everything’s falling neatly into place,” said Lewis that evening after his final visit to the Maudsley to see Kim. “He was extremely pleased by your offer to deliver the Mercedes and enormously cheered when I gave him your letter—after he’d read it he told me to say he quite understood that it would take time to get the marriage back on its feet again and that meanwhile he wouldn’t expect more from you than the lift to Oakshott . . . I had to tread carefully, since I know you’re bailing out at Reigate, but my conscience is clear on that score because I know this is all part of your genuine effort to explore whether the marriage is still viable. When are you taking the Porsche down to the hotel?”