A Shock to the System (19 page)

Graham Marshall felt as if he had been slapped in the face.

Leaving a large company is a slow process for senior personnel. The number of farewell celebrations increases with the number of years of service and the level attained in the hierarchy. George Brewer, who had joined Crasoco at twenty-two straight out of Cambridge and ended his career as Head of Personnel, qualified for the maximum number of send-offs possible.

The first was scheduled for a full month before his official retirement date, and took advantage of a board meeting on that day to assemble some of the company's top brass for a lunchtime drinks party in one of the twelfth-floor hospitality rooms. The atmosphere was relaxed. The board members had little idea who George was and could therefore be impersonally charming. His immediate superiors and colleagues knew there was a long sequence of such occasions ahead and felt no pressure to pass on messages of great pertinence to the retiring Head. And George himself, with a couple of drinks inside him, shed his self-pity and recaptured some of his former urbanity.

Robert Benham and Graham were both invited and they met as the uniformed waitress proffered a drinks tray. Graham took a gin and tonic, Robert an orange juice.

The waitress disappeared and left them facing each other. ‘Terry Sworder,' said Robert, stripping the cellophane off a small cigar.

‘Yes. What about him?'

‘Gather you've set up an annual interview for him tomorrow.' Robert lit the cigar. Graham had to restrain himself from reaching for his lighter.

‘Yes. It is due.'

‘It's not your place to set it up.'

‘On the contrary, Robert. It most certainly is my place. George asked me some years back to make all such arrangements.'

‘And to actually take the interviews?'

Graham, as he knew his father would have done, noted the split infinitive and felt a sense of superiority. Robert Benham, whatever his skills, was really just a common little man.

‘In a lot of cases, yes, my actually taking the interview would help George, reduce his workload a bit.'

This was rewarded by a snort of contempt which showed Robert to have little opinion of his boss's workload.

‘And you were planning to do Terry Sworder's interview, were you?'

‘Yes, I was. George has got a lot on his plate at the moment.'

‘Bugger all, except a great series of do's like this.'

‘That may appear to be the case, but I think it will be more convenient for him if –'

‘The interview's been postponed for six weeks. When it happens, I'll take it.'

Graham smiled submissively. ‘I don't think George will be very happy to find  –'

‘I've told George. He agrees.'

There was insolence in Robert Benham's stare. The hostility between them was no longer disguised. Then, as if he had read Graham's intentions towards Sworder, the younger man asked, ‘By the way, when's your annual interview coming up?'

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Graham felt as if he had been slapped.

Later, as he half-listened to a board member's condolences for Merrily's death, his attention was monopolised by his rival's voice. He knew he was becoming obsessive about Robert Benham, but he couldn't help listening as the younger man discovered that David Birdham, the Managing Director, shared his enthusiasm for sailing.

‘Oh yes, David, I've just got a little twenty-foot job. Four berths, but sails all right. Well, I get down there as often as I can. Got her moored at Bosham, yes. Not this weekend, no. My girlfriend's over from the States and we've promised ourselves a couple of days' pampering at the Randolph in Oxford. But the next weekend, certainly, I'll have the boat out on the Sunday. After that I've a feeling I'm going to be rather busy. Once George has finally gone, there'll be plenty to do. Whole Department needs a big shake-up. Actually, David, wanted to talk to you at some point about the Department's name . . . “Personnel” has a very dated feel. Really think we should be talking about “Human Resources” these days.'

David Birdham conceded that there might be something in this, and his junior went on, ‘It'd just give the thing a new feel. Show that I'm not just into cosmetic tinkering, show I mean business. You see, I'm convinced that a lot of major changes are going to be needed in this Department.'

Graham realised that he was looking full at the speaker and that Robert, with an expression of irony, was holding his eye. Graham also realised that the last sentence had been delivered specifically for his benefit.

He was going to have to do something about Robert Benham.

Detective-Inspector Laker looked again at the letter. It was typewritten and had arrived through the post that morning, addressed simply (and incorrectly) to ‘Murder Department'.

A crank letter would normally have been dealt with further down the hierarchy. It was only because of the very specific nature of the accusation that it had teen referred to him.

The message was short.

THERE ARE CONSTANT COMPLAINTS ABOUT THE NUMBER OF UNSOLVED MURDERS, AND THAT DOESN'T DO MUCH FOR THE POLICE IMAGE. IF YOU WANT TO IMPROVE THE STATISTICS, YOU COULD DO WORSE THAN ASK GRAHAM MARSHALL OF 173, BOILEAU AVENUE ABOUT THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE, MERRILY.

Needless to say, there was no signature.

Detective-Inspector Laker looked at the paper hard. He didn't handle it. In the unlikely event of investigation being required, the less new prints the better.

From the criminal point of view, he didn't take it very seriously. The shock of death, he knew, produced bizarre reactions in people; its random nature, its lack of apparent purpose, had power to change characters overnight. The sheer disbelief of bereavement, the desperate desire to explain the inexplicable, could lead to wild accusations, usually against doctors and hospitals, but often against individuals too.

No, it was not the nature of the letter that disturbed him; it was just one phrase in it. ‘The death of his wife.'

It was eight months since Helen had died. He thought he was getting better; at times he could even think ahead, make plans beyond the imperatives of work; he would never get over it, but at times he could envisage living in a kind of equilibrium with the knowledge of her absence.

And then something like this would happen. He never knew what it would be that triggered the return of his raw, uncontainable grief. It could be the sight of a woman in the street, a sentence half-heard in a television play, a smell of cooking, or something as fatuously irrelevant as those five typewritten words. And when it came, the pain still had power to destroy him, sap his strength and poison his thoughts, leaving him empty, exhausted and afraid.

Yes, obviously the letter needed some sort of token investigation. But it could wait a few days.

Graham liked being alone in the Boileau Avenue house.

Charmian had taken the children to Islington for the weekend. This was not their final move, merely one of the steps in their process of acclimatisation. She had presented it to them as fun and, though Graham's opinion of Charmian had been soured by her statement of distrust in him, he could still appreciate her skill in managing his offspring. This weekend, she announced, Henry and Emma could come and select their rooms in her house. If they liked, they could go out and buy some paint to start decorating the rooms. At least they could reconnoitre the area, try the local hamburger joints, maybe even see what was on at the local cinemas.

Graham felt confident that they were in good hands. Absurdly, that little righteous sensation of being a model father returned to him. There he was, selflessly doing what was best for his children.

Lilian was also conveniently looked after. Though Graham's sole interest in her was that they should never meet again, he was aware that appearances must be kept up. To banish her too suddenly from his life might draw attention to his behaviour, and he knew that all his future plans depended on maintaining a low profile.

He had therefore talked very solicitously to the hospital doctor about his mother-in-law's condition. She was obviously in a state of shock, he agreed, after her daughter's death, but he did not feel this could have been helped by the additional stress of looking after her two grandchildren. He was also certain that staying in the house where her daughter had died must have been a contributory factor in her suffering, and felt it would be better if she returned to her own flat. It was not, of course, that he was unwilling to look after her, but he felt his own emotional stability to be so precarious that he feared he might do more harm than good. Since his own unhappiness sprang from the same cause as his mother-in-law's, namely Merrily's death, he feared that the two of them together might only exacerbate each other's distress.

He found, as he made his recitation, a full repertoire of pauses, sighs and sobs came unbidden to his aid, and the performance was taken at face value. The doctor agreed with what he said, regretted Mrs. Hinchcliffe's uncompromising hostility towards her surviving daughter, and arranged for her to return to her own flat, where a voluntary helper would stay with her over the weekend.

Graham was thus freed to enjoy his solitude.

That solitude was not uninterrupted. There were still phone calls of sympathy from former friends, and the estate agent sent round four couples at intervals to inspect the property. All of these were properly respectful of his recently bereaved status. They regretted, from his point of view, the need to sell the house, but could see exactly why he was doing it. Three of the couples showed a gratifying amount of interest and one implied that some form of offer might not be long in coming.

This pleased Graham, because, although he felt at ease alone in the house that day, his happiness arose from the solitude rather than the surroundings. The house was too large and raised too many responsibilities. Since Merrily's death it had quickly got untidy and Lilian's barnstorming forays with Hoover and duster had made little impression. Then Graham found that he was having to devote time to washing shirts and socks. He also looked with distaste at, but ultimately ignored, the rising tide of dirty clothes in the children's bedrooms. Perhaps Charmian should move ud her proposed schedule. He couldn't cope for long with the constant kitting-out and other services that Henry and Emma required.

He also resented the clutter of the house, the volume of furniture and bits that Merrily had accumulated. Though he had been present, and even consulted, at many of the purchases, he thought of it all as exclusively hers. Now she was gone, and the house soon to go, he would sell the lot, piano, pine dressers, hatstands, rocking chairs, knick-knacks – all could go to the first bidder.

Yes, the sooner he was installed in his nice little service flat, the better.

A pleasing thought struck him. The normal inhibition of house purchase, unwillingness to be saddled, however briefly, with two mortgages, did not apply to him. Merrily's death, something he now saw as an artefact, with its own perfection of design, had freed him from such restrictions. There was nothing to stop him from looking for, or indeed buying and moving into, a flat straight away.

But not yet. He would keep this weekend to himself, cosset himself a little, recoup, build up his strength for the next test.

And read. He had bought another book about murderers, this time one by a Home Office pathologist. The subject was beginning to fascinate him, but the fascination was not that of prurience. His interest was detached, professional, almost academic. He shook his head over the follies of past murderers, their carelessness, their lack of proper planning. He felt towards them much as he had towards his colleagues at Crasoco, that they were maybe good, but that in a straight race he had the skills to beat them.

His feelings towards the murderers, however, were subtly different. With them he felt an identity, a mild regret for their failures, a unity in the freemasonry of murder.

He experienced mild anxiety about his growing interest in the subject. Any behaviour tainted with obsession was alien to him. The first murder had been an accident, and Merrily's a logical solution to a problem. He must never begin to think of murder as more than a means to an end.

And what was the end he had in view? He decided he should devote a little time to the analysis of his motives.

His main reason for killing his wife had been financial. Her death offered him a way out of a situation that threatened to reproduce his parents' parsimonious existence. It also brought other benefits, freed him from unwelcome responsibilities, and offered him the chance of living the sort of life he wanted.

And what did he want? An hotel-like environment, and no emotional ties. Freedom to be himself, do what he chose. To have a nice flat, a nice car, enough money, go out where and when he wanted. And with whom. He was not yet sure to what extent sex would play a part in his new life, but it was an option not to be forgotten.

By one murder, he had achieved most of those objectives. With Merrily and the children out of his life, there was nothing to stop him from building up his dream.

Why then did he not feel complete satisfaction? What was the little unease in his mind?

Deep down he knew, but he teased himself by withholding the answer for a little while.

It was work. His image of his free self had projected a Graham Marshall who was Head of Personnel at Crasoco, not a passed-over and resented assistant to another appointee.

Robert Benham was the problem.

And while there might be political ways within the Crasoco system of dealing with that problem, there was another, much quicker, method. Robert might talk airily of Human Resources, but he was not aware of the inhuman resources of his rival.

It was not just a morbid fascination with murder that brought Graham to his conclusion. To kill Robert Benham was the logical thing to do.