Acknowledgments (2 page)

When, finally, I was ready to pursue my investigations into Britain's obscurest by-ways, I made it my business to renew acquaintance with my former wife, Sandra. As she so tellingly put it, when a couple split up, the man finds another woman, and the woman finds herself. Sandra, I was thrilled to discover, has found herself as a member of a small community in a quiet, leafy and unpronounceable corner of mid-Wales. Now that she is at one with Mother Nature, we were both able to agree that our parting, however painful at the time, was a blessing in disguise. During our brief but memorable reunion, Sandra supplied me with copious quantities of herb and beef bile soup while I interviewed her fellow sect members, and she was also kind enough to care for me during a subsequent and happily short-lived indisposition. I owe particular gratitude to Sandra for her intercession in the unfortunate dispute with her spiritual leader about the morality of driving an imported car fuelled by leaded petrol that is touched upon briefly in chapter five. Thankfully, lasting unpleasantness was avoided, and I believe we all parted with a fuller understanding of each other's cultural imperatives.

It was good to see our son, Roger, when I journeyed to the coast of Lincolnshire. His unwillingness to lower his expectations with regard to working life is a shining example, not least to myself, of the importance of maintaining standards in a dumbed-down world. In writing this manuscript, I have kept in mind Roger's injunction not to patronise my readers by producing a volume that I naively imagine they might wish to buy, but rather to concentrate on literary self-fulfilment, and have the courage to say: “I am what I am. Take me as you find me, or not at all.” Truly the child is father to the man! I can only express the profound hope that, in its reckless drive to prune public expenditure, the government does not impose such Draconian cuts to state benefits that Roger is required to compromise his ideals, and forsake his simple but dignified existence on the outskirts of Boston in the old family camper van. Rusty though it may be, to see once again the setting for my only child's conception after so many years brought more than just a single tear to my eye.

It is far too long since I had the good fortune to express in print my admiration for my brother Tom's hardiness and flair for self-sufficiency. Feeling rather like a hunter myself, I tracked him down to a small forest in the Peak District, and we spent a couple of chilly nights under canvas, our cockles warmed by knocked-off Johnnie Walker, reminiscing into the small hours about the good old days of scrumping apples from the farmer's orchard at the end of our lane. Our late parents' bosoms would, I am sure, have swelled with pride to see the accuracy with which Tom can pot a pheasant in twilight at a range of not less than forty yards. I recall with particular fondness a long evening spent with Tom and two of his friends, sitting in a cloud of midges downwind from a rabbit warren, waiting for the quarry to emerge before dusk. Male bonding has not always enjoyed a good press, but as I make clear in the pages that follow, that night was something to savour – unlike the rabbit, I have to confess!

When I travelled to the North East, I was fortunate to meet members of Sienna's family as I explored a landscape scarred by poverty and abandoned coal-mines. Her father continues, sadly, to fall foul of the Parole Board's narrow-minded interpretation of the requirements of public safety, so our time together was strictly limited and spent in conditions far from conducive to frank and open conversation. However, it was no small recompense to meet Sienna's five siblings for the first time, and in particular to discover that young Jonquil is every bit as fun-loving as my wife. Jonquil it was who accompanied me on a nostalgia-filled visit to that very same night-club where Sienna and I met, and it was heart-warming to see that a talent for pole-dancing runs in the family.

To Ludmilla Arkadin, formerly Woodthorpe, the ex-wife of my agent Dean, I must offer especially profound thanks. Ludmilla generously took time out from her ceaseless fight against deportation from this country (and what happened, may I ask in passing, to our fine tradition of tolerance?) to break important and disturbing news that she judged – quite rightly – I needed to know.

At first, I was shocked by the suggestion that the easy and laughter-filled friendship between Sienna and Dean that I had so happily encouraged might have blossomed into something more intimate. Ludmilla, to her eternal credit, continued to press the point, refusing to be discouraged by my insistence on putting the phone down and deleting her emails. The photographs she forwarded to me were too grainy to offer, in my opinion, cast-iron proof of infidelity, although something in the way that Sienna bent over Dean in the darkened car park of a motorway service station prompted more than a few fluttering of anxiety on my part.

My philosophy in life is simply expressed: “Expect the worst and hope for the best”. It seems especially well suited to the life of a professional writer, and on the whole it has served me well, offering comfort even in my darkest days. It was in this spirit that I confronted Dean with what his former spouse had told me, and when he laughed it off as the maunderings of an embittered woman who had married only for convenience and money, I was glad to take him at his word.

Unfortunately, it was a different story when, in a casual aside, I raised the matter with Sienna. By a miserable coincidence, I had told her only the previous evening that my share of the assets inherited from our parents (Tom has long squandered his on women and booze, of course) had diminished to a point where soon we would both need to seek paid work elsewhere if we were not to join Roger in relying on state hand-outs. Sienna took the news with a stoicism bordering on indifference, not least when I pointed out the wisdom and significance of that famous old phrase “for richer, for poorer”.

However, when I referred to the absurdity of Ludmilla's allegation, it was as if a dam had burst, and Sienna subjected me to a tirade that combined confession with calumny. Bad enough to be a cuckold in my own home, but to be sent pottering around the drabbest back-waters of Britain to provide my wife and her lover with endless opportunities to satisfy their lust added insult to injury. The sting of her contempt as a self-appointed literary critic was, by comparison, something I could bear with my customary phlegm. It is not as if I enjoy writing any longer, let alone all the ghastly research. This business turns us all into brain-dead hamsters, forever running on an endless wheel.

I must express, therefore, my gratitude along with my sincere apologies to the coroner and his officers, as well as such members of the emergency services as are tasked with clearing up the mess that they find. Sienna and Dean are due here at any moment, for what I have perhaps disingenuously characterised as a “heart to heart”.

I am fully prepared, with two rifles and enough ammunition to destroy a small army, let alone three people. I have no qualms, given that, as Dean says, we're all in it together.

The doorbell is ringing.

Before I go, I must conclude by expressing my utmost indebtedness to Tom's poacher friends, for supplying me with the wherewithal to bring this narrative to a suitable conclusion. For obvious reasons, I am unable to satisfy the curiosity of those undertaking the enquiry into our deaths to name them.

But they know who they are.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Fair enough, Bernice, I admit it. I am a murderer. But don't gloat too soon. By the time you read this, I'll be out of your reach.

You know, I can picture you in your favourite armchair. Just about to settle down to a hard evening's viewing, weren't you, when you padded out of the kitchen, cocoa cup in hand, and saw the envelope pushed under the door? The envelope containing these few typed sheets. You're a creature of habit – the telly will still be on in the background, I'm sure of that – but keep reading, it's important.

I'm sorry about Stanley, truly I am. Poor, fussy Stanley. He wasn't a bad man. For an estate agent, anyway. Though I never understood why he was the apple of your eye. Were you jealous of me? I don't think so – I think you simply resented having a common daughter-in-law who'd been smart enough to marry the boss. Be honest, from day one you tried to turn him against me. All because I wore short skirts and wasn't much of a typist.

Why didn't you accept Stanley had committed suicide? Everyone else did. Okay, the note he left didn't explain why he couldn't go on, but it
was
in his handwriting, spidery as ever. No wonder I had trouble with my typing. The coroner certainly sympathised with me. And had a good look at my legs into the bargain.

But you simply wouldn't let it alone, wouldn't accept that one afternoon your precious son had put a noose round his neck and kicked away the chair. And in a terraced house on the wrong side of town, too. Yet people like Stanley, professional men, have to cope with all kinds of pressures. The coroner told me so the night after the inquest.

I might have taken my share of the blame, might have tried to explain things to you, but you wouldn't have understood. No chance of consolation, only hysterical rage. So I kept quiet, never dreaming you'd start sniffing round and accuse me of murder.

The sergeant warned you I could prove I was down in London the day Stanley died. I said I'd been to the Ideal Home Exhibition and that ticket collector from Euston remembered my legs. The sergeant told me what you said to that – we were at a wine bar. He mimicked you saying, “Ideal Home? Ideal Home? She's a slut, you oaf. Can't tell one end of a dustpan from another.” But the sergeant agreed with me that dusting isn't the most important thing for a young girl to master.

And I am still young. That's what makes this whole mess so sad. Such a waste.

Sorry, I didn't mean to be maudlin. I've always looked for the good things in life. Though for me everything always seems to boil down to men and to money. Mostly men. Stanley was where the money came in.

When the police showed you the door, you might have got the message. But no – you had to hire a private detective. Does it surprise you that I know about him? He trailed me to the sauna one day and we got chatting. Later on he told me your theory. Quite ingenious, he thought.

You were so sure I wanted rid of Stanley. I suppose you thought I had my eye on his stamp collection. And to be free for one of my fancy men, as you call them. (Though there wasn't much fancy about the coroner or the sergeant, I can tell you that. I'm just too friendly for my own good sometimes.)

I expect you got the idea from a thriller on the box. They ought to be more careful about the stuff they put out. You reckoned I'd got my lover to set up a rendezvous with Stanley, posing as a prospective purchaser while I was out of harm's way. Once in the house, the rest was easy. The scene was set for Stanley's last hang-up.

You wanted the detective to watch me until I led him to lover boy. Nice idea. Only problem is, there was never anyone special for me.

All right, I did lie about the Ideal Home Exhibition. As a matter of fact, I went to work instead. For the last two years I've had a part-time job in a big hotel in London. How can I describe it without being crude? Making money from my hobby, let's say. Think of it like Stanley selling some of his stamps.

No regrets. We are what we are. Well, maybe one regret. That I got caught. But who by, I wonder? The South African gentleman with funny ideas? The bloke who quoted poetry at the most unexpected moment? The man from Militant Tendency, the barrister who liked it with his wig on?

Only joking. I really don't know. As I explained to Stanley when he realised what his symptoms meant. I hadn't even had the test then myself. But he was panic-stricken, couldn't believe what had happened to him. I tried reassurance. It can take years before the worst happens.

But look what he did the moment my back was turned. His suicide shook me, though at first I tried to carry on as before. Bad luck on the coroner and the sergeant, but men in their position ought to know better.

Your private detective's rather different. He's crazy about me, he'll do anything I ask. If only we'd met years ago. Trouble is, I've not been feeling good lately. My doctor's been frank – though he's worried sick, since I helped him through a rough patch eighteen months back.

So I've decided to go out in style. This very evening. In the London hotel, it seems appropriate. At seven-thirty they'll find me dangling from a chandelier in the conference room. Out of reach, like I said.

Let's see. It must be eight by now. I bet you're feeling smug, knowing I've paid my price. But wait. Can you hear a tap on the door?

Good.

The tapping's getting louder, isn't it? Don't fret, he'll stop in a minute. He's got a copy of one of your keys, as a matter of fact.

Sit down. Don't waste your time with the telephone, he saw to that ten minutes ago when he slipped the envelope under the door.

Have you guessed? It's your private detective, come back to visit. Like me, I'm afraid he's nothing left to lose. And your idea of how I had Stanley killed was too good to waste. Last time we spoke, my detective still hadn't decided upon the ligature. A cord perhaps – or a length of chicken wire. What do you think it will be? Hear the door opening? His footsteps as he moves toward your living room? No? Try turning the volume on the TV down.

And, by the way, are you still sitting comfortably?

9 July

This is better than sex.

As a matter of fact, it's
much
better than sex.

I'm beginning to think it may even be better than watching television. And that's saying something, as far as I'm concerned. Perhaps it's a sign that I'm getting choosy. I need something extra, not the same old thing, time after time.