A Shock to the System (21 page)

Once again he was surprised at the way the words came to him. He seemed to have an instinct for the expression of bereavement.

‘Yes, I can see that, Mr. Marshall,' the Detective-Inspector said soothingly. ‘And I'm sorry that I have to be here to add to your troubles. The accusation in the letter is a very serious one, though.'

‘But totally false. God, I mean, it's not as if there hasn't been a police investigation. And an inquest.'

‘Yes.'

‘You know the findings of the inquest, don't you?'

‘I have read the relevant documents, yes, Mr. Marshall.'

‘Well then.' Graham delivered this as if it were the Q.E.D., the end of the argument; but he watched Laker's reaction closely.

The detective was silent, and Graham felt impelled to continue. ‘It's a ridiculous accusation. And very cruel. I mean, why should I have wanted to kill Merrily? Ours was a very happy marriage.'

‘Was it?' The emphasis of the question was not loaded; Laker appeared to be asking merely for information.

‘Yes, of course it was. Ask anyone. Ask our friends.'

‘Ah, Mr. Marshall, a marriage is the most private relationship two people can have. A profoundly secret contract. What appears on the surface can be very misleading.'

‘O.K., I accept that, but even say I hated Merrily, why should I go to the trouble of murdering her? You can get a divorce easily enough nowadays. I had no motive to kill her. Come on, what did I possibly stand to gain from her death?'

‘Nothing, except to get your mortgage paid off. Thirty thousand pounds.'

Graham flushed. This was getting too near to the truth. He tried to think of a blustering defence, but words wouldn't come.

The detective held the pause, then said, ‘I'm sorry. This must be very upsetting for you.'

Graham sank his head into his hands. He wasn't sure. Was Laker interpreting his reaction as a symptom of outraged bereavement or was the sympathy merely delaying an accusation? He decided to stay silent until the Inspector made his position clear.

‘But thirty thousand pounds is surely not sufficient motive for murder,' Laker went on. ‘Someone in your position would have to be mad to take the risk for that.'

Graham had to look up to check the policeman's expression. Were the words to be taken at face value or were they to relax him, to lead him into a trap?

Laker appeared to be sincere. Graham felt marginally less tense, though a little wedge of doubt had been driven into his mind. As when Lilian had voiced it, the accusation of madness was what hurt. The Inspector's indirect aspersion cast doubt on Graham's motivation, on the system of logic which had dictated his recent actions. He didn't like it.

‘Anyway,' Laker continued, moving even further from the role of accuser, ‘it's ridiculous to think you could have caused your wife's death, even if you had wanted to. Say you had arranged some form of elaborate electrical boobytrap, what guarantee had you that your wife would go up to the loft?'

‘Exactly,' Graham concurred.

‘From all accounts she'd never been up there since you'd bought the house.'

‘No.'

‘And you weren't to know that she'd suddenly decide to make the spare-room curtains while you were away.'

‘No.'

‘No. The accusation's preposterous.'

Graham didn't feel he was quite let off the hook yet. If the Inspector was as unsuspicious as he appeared, why was he there?

‘But somebody has made it,' Laker continued in a measured tone. ‘That's what I don't like.'

‘I'm not too keen on it myself.' Graham felt he could risk this amount of wry humour.

‘No. Have you had any other hate-mail?'

‘No.'

‘Accusing telephone calls?'

‘No.'

‘Right, so we come to the crux of the matter. Have you any idea who might have sent this letter?'

‘None at all.' Graham hadn't had time to think of that. Since the revelation of the letter's existence he had been too anxious about Laker's possible suspicions.

‘Because I think this sort of thing's despicable!' The Inspector was suddenly incensed. ‘I know how you must be feeling at the moment. I had a . . . my wife died not so long ago and I . . . I mean, if I'd known of a letter like this, I'd have . . . I don't know what I would have done to the person who sent it.'

He paused to recover himself. This was not good, not professional. It wasn't the first time he had become too emotional since Helen's death. However much he tried to keep his private life apart from his work, he seemed now to have no control over its incursions. He knew his reasons for coming to see Graham Marshall were suspect. It was a chore he could have delegated, but the letter had unleashed such raw anger in him that he had wanted to follow it up himself. He kept projecting himself into Graham's circumstances, imagining how he would have felt in that terrible month after Helen's death if this kind of spurious allegation had been Ievelled at him.

‘What I'm saying, Mr. Marshall,' he continued, calmer, ‘is that the person who sent this letter has committed an offence. If you wished to prefer charges, you would be quite within your rights. Which is why I want to know if you have any idea who might have sent it.'

‘Am I allowed to see the letter?'

Detective-Inspector Laker took a folded sheet from his inside pocket and handed it over. ‘This is a photocopy. We may need to run tests on the original.'

Graham read the typewritten words.

He had not a second's doubt about their origin. The defiant flamboyance of the gesture gave it away, and the hinting style of the letter confirmed it. It had all the hallmarks of Lilian Hinchcliffe's work.

‘Hmm,' he said. ‘I might have an idea.'

He didn't want to commit himself yet, till he had thought through the implications of an accusation.

‘Who?'

‘Well, I'm . . . I'm not sure that I would want any further action. That is, of course, assuming I have your assurance that you don't take the accusation in the letter seriously.'

‘You can rely on that, Mr. Marshall. But, since you obviously
do
know who sent the letter, are you sure you don't want it followed up?'

Graham was tempted. There was an attraction in the idea of getting his own back on Lilian, of having her publicly reprimanded and his own absolution from guilt publicly proclaimed. But there were dangers to be weighed against that. At the moment the case was quiet, dead and buried. The inquest's findings had been satisfactory and now he had Detective-Inspector Laker's assurance that he was believed innocent. Better to leave well enough alone than risk unknown consequences by stirring it. Regretfully, he decided to deny himself the pleasure of that little extra revenge on Lilian.

‘No, I think not, Inspector. As you say, the recently bereaved are in a very vulnerable state, and I think enough damage has been done.' Oh, he could sound smug when he tried.

‘Well, I think that's a very altruistic position for you to take, Mr. Marshall.' Laker paused. ‘From what you say, incidentally, it's not difficult for me to work out who is the author of that letter.'

Graham raised a quizzical eyebrow, but said nothing.

‘I did hear of your mother-in-law's suicide attempt last week. She's obviously in a very unstable state. Death has this effect on people. They feel guilt and they want to attribute that guilt. When someone close dies, most of us blame ourselves in some way. I dare say at times, Mr. Marshall, you've blamed yourself for your wife's death.'

Graham nodded his accord, stifling the naughty bubble of a giggle in his throat.

‘And in many cases the bereaved transfer the blame from themselves to someone else. As your mother-in-law has clearly done. She probably blames you first for taking her daughter away from her by marriage; and now her daughter has been taken away by death, she blames you for that too.' He paused, at first satisfied with his conclusion. Then it seemed to embarrass him. ‘I'm sorry. Doing the amateur psychologist bit. Hazard of the job, I'm afraid. Anyway, you are certain you want no action?'

‘Certain. Can I get you another of those?'

Armed with his second large Scotch, Detective-Inspector Laker began, ‘It is terrible, the first bit . . . that slow, slow realisation that she's gone. I found at times I would forget it and then something would force me to remember again. And every time it hurts. Don't you find that?'

Graham found the right agreements coming out. Laker stayed commiserating for another hour. Since Helen had died, he had found the evenings the worst. Evenings and weekends. He now put himself forward for duties at uncongenial times, duties he would formerly have tried to duck. Anything to fill the time.

After a while he felt he had to go. He shook his host's hand on the doorstep, urging Graham to ‘give him a buzz when he was in need of moral support'. And, feeling slightly sheepish at having given away so much of himself, Detective-Inspector Laker went across to his Ford Escort.

Inside, Graham poured himself another huge Scotch.

He couldn't believe it, the way everything turned to his advantage. He had feared that Laker had come as an avenging angel, and had found instead just an ally in the league of widowers.

Graham relaxed and let the laughter come. He lay on the sofa and laughed till he was weak.

He was in the kitchen experimenting with a box of Swan Vestas matches when he heard the front door opened with a key.

He walked into the hall and met Lilian.

‘I left some of my belongings,' she said haughtily. ‘I've still got Merrily's keys. I didn't think you were in.'

This was patently untrue. If she had wanted to come when the house was empty, she had had ample opportunity during his working hours.

‘Where are the children, Graham?'

‘They're staying with Charmian a couple more days.'

‘But what about school?'

‘I rang their teachers and said they needed a break after what had happened. The teachers agreed.'

‘They mustn't miss too much school. It's unsettling for them not knowing what's going to happen.'

‘Everything will be sorted out.' He didn't tell her that Charmian had that day been to see the headmaster of the local comprehensive in Islington to arrange Henry and Emma's immediate enrolment.

‘Yes. Soon, I hope. The sooner they're away from you the happier I'll be, Graham.' She added the last sentence with sudden viciousness.

Almost exactly what Charmian had said. What did they think he was – some kind of monster? He contemplated a riposte about the anonymous letter, but refrained. He'd store that, just as he'd stored the line about William Essex's sexual proclivities. Always a good idea to have a weapon in reserve when dealing with Lilian.

Though in fact he wouldn't be dealing with her for much longer. After she walked out of the house that evening, there was no reason why they should ever meet again. With that knowledge, she became for him just a minor irritant, not even worth baiting. (Must remember to get Merrily's keys from her before she goes, he thought.)

He drew aside. ‘You came to collect some things.'

She made a great noise gathering her possessions together, but Graham paid no attention. She was an irrelevance; she could not touch him. He lounged in the sitting-room with yet another Scotch, and switched on the television.

It was not Lilian's style to leave without a parting shot. She stood in the doorway, clutching an old suitcase, and mouthed something inaudible.

‘Sorry, can't hear you with the television,' he announced.

She walked into the room and switched it off.

‘
I said
you won't get away with it, Graham.'

‘With what?'

‘With just shedding all your responsibilities like this. It's not as easy as that.'

‘It seems to be,' he replied coolly.

‘No. You frighten me, the way you've behaved over Merrily's death.'

He shrugged.

‘And the way you've treated me, Graham.'

He looked at his watch.

‘But don't you worry, you'll have your comeuppance. I'll get my revenge. One way or another, I'll destroy you.'

Deciding that she wasn't going to improve on this as an exit line, Lilian Hinchcliffe stormed out of the house.

Oh damn, she had still got the keys. Never mind, he could write to her and ask for them.

Graham switched the television back on.

He was undisturbed by Lilian's threat.

But then he thought she was referring to the anonymous letter.

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.)