Crime Writers and Other Animals (2 page)

George knew exactly where to go for the tumble-drier ventilation hose, and knew exactly which model was required. All kinds of machinery fascinated him. He then went on to a supermarket where he loaded up with a packet of mince pies, a pot of brandy butter, a bottle of champagne and one of brandy. Finally, he entered a lingerie shop and purchased a sexy silk basque, suspender and stocking set. He hailed another cab and reached Victoria Station in time to catch the four-twenty train.

There was a Father Christmas costume hanging in the hall of Trevor's cottage when Natalie called round at four-thirty. ‘Kids always insist I do the full number when I fill their stockings,' he explained. ‘Have to dress up for them. It's daft – I swear they're never awake to see me when I'm in the kit. Still, the little pains take it all very seriously – leave out a glass of brandy and a mince pie for Santa, carrot for the reindeer. They like their silly rituals.'

‘Where are they now?' asked Natalie.

‘Round at a friend's. Being brought back nineish.'

‘Did you find that sleeping draught?'

‘Uh-huh.' He produced a bottle. ‘My wife used to give it to the blighters when they were teething. Didn't have much effect on them after a while, they built up an immunity, but it's powerful stuff. I tried a spoonful once when I had toothache and it knocked me out for, like, twelve hours.'

‘Good,' said Natalie.

As she reached out for the bottle, Trevor took her hand and drew her close to him. She saw the familiar spark of lust in his brown eyes.

‘Later,' she said, planting a little kiss on his nose. ‘We'll have earned it later.'

When she got back to her cottage, Natalie once again dialled the number of the London flat. As soon as she heard George's voice on the answering machine, she used the remote control to play back any messages that might have been left. There were none. Good, she thought, that meant he'd wiped hers.

She put the phone down, waited a moment, then pressed the last number redial button. At the tone she left another message on the machine.

‘George, this is Natalie. I'm begging you, please don't come to the cottage. I know you say you're in a terrible state, but your coming down here is not going to help either of us. Our marriage is over, you know it, and no melodramatic gestures from you are going to make any difference to that. I love Trevor, and you're just going to have to accept that fact. Please see reason and stay in London over Christmas. Goodbye.'

The children's sleeping draught had a sickly fruity flavour, but the brandy's powerful taste smothered it. Natalie mixed the proportions carefully in the brandy bottle and then got out the ingredients to make brandy butter. George had a sweet tooth; he could never resist brandy butter.

Her husband was almost gleeful when he got out at the familiar station and felt the sting of frost on his face. There were few passengers, not the commuter hordes that would have been travelling most other weekdays. But now most working people seemed to assume Christmas Eve was an automatic part of their holiday entitlement. George did not approve of that kind of thing. He'd grafted hard all his working life and had earned his current leisure and prosperity. He was determined to enjoy them both to the full.

In high spirits he got into a waiting cab and gave its driver the familiar address. Could be just like old times, thought George Marshall.

At six-fifteen, Natalie went up to the bathroom and washed her face with soapy water. Deliberately she kept her eyes open. The soap stung like mad, but left a satisfactory redness around her lids. She dampened a handkerchief and tucked it in her sleeve, then dishevelled her hair a little. The face reflected in the bathroom mirror looked suitably traumatized. When she heard the doorbell ring downstairs, she added a dash of contrition to her expression.

George stood on the doorstep, blinking through his spectacles. The coloured Christmas lights she'd draped over the porch reflected off his bald head. He looked even shorter than Natalie remembered. And she'd forgotten how much she hated the sight of him.

‘I didn't use my keys. Didn't want to startle you.'

‘That was very thoughtful.'

Natalie was still for a moment, swallowing down the distaste for what she had to do. Then, as if impulsively, with a little strangled sob in her voice, she reached forward to enfold her husband's plump shoulders. ‘Oh, George, can you ever forgive me?'

‘Yes, of course,' he replied, as if he were soothing an overexcited pet. ‘Of course I can.'

He looked up to where a sprig of silver-ribboned mistletoe hung from the porch light. ‘Well, there's an invitation,' he chuckled, as his mouth nuzzled towards hers. ‘Happy Christmas, darling.'

Natalie steeled herself for the touch of his lips. She had forgotten how repellent and slug-like they were, but managed to simulate some enthusiasm in her response. Then she drew back and looked at her husband, her face a mask of suffering and apology.

‘Happy Christmas, darling,' said Natalie Marshall. ‘Come in and let me get you a brandy.'

Except for the detail that Natalie had decided to murder her husband, it was almost as if George Marshall had never been away. As soon as he arrived at the cottage that Christmas Eve, he instantly took over domestically, scurrying straight into the kitchen with his carrier bag of supermarket goodies to rustle up a snack for the two of them. It was with difficulty that Natalie dissuaded him from immediately fitting the new ventilation hose on to the tumble drier. George Marshall was back in his own home and back into his role as boring homemaker. Every moment she spent in his company, Natalie hated him more and became more aware of the differences between her husband and her lover, Trevor.

Still, I don't have to put up with it for long, she comforted herself. By this time tomorrow, George will be dead, I'll be in line to inherit all his money and there'll be nothing in the way of Trevor's and my happiness.

She followed George into the kitchen and indicated the bottle of brandy on the dresser. Her intention had been to fill her husband up with the drugged fluid as quickly as possible, but George's dutiful domesticity made this impossible. He said he'd settle down with a drink once he'd knocked up their little snack. Natalie must be feeling dreadful after what'd happened. She should just put her feet up, and he'd sort out everything in the kitchen. He ushered his wife back into the sitting room, sat her in an armchair, placed another log on the fire and put a glass of champagne into her hand.

Natalie sipped her drink and bided her time. The delay did not worry her unduly. She still felt confident her plans would work. There was no danger that she herself might inadvertently get drugged. Natalie never drank brandy – it was George's favourite tipple – and her constant dieting, even more important now her body had Trevor to admire it, ruled out the possibility of her touching the brandy butter.

She switched on the television and surfed quickly through the channels, but nothing caught her attention. Jovial game-show hosts in Santa suits did not fit with her current mood and preoccupations. The traditional red costume and beard did give her an idea, though. She and Trevor enjoyed dressing up for sex. Maybe that night she'd make love to Father Christmas. The thought gave her a warm anticipatory glow.

George soon came bustling in with a loaded tray. Boringly predictable, he'd done scrambled egg on toast for them. More satisfactorily, from Natalie's point of view, he'd also brought in a plate of mince pies and a large dish of brandy butter. The doctored bottle of brandy and a balloon glass were also on the tray.

‘Oh, got something for you,' George remembered just before he sat down. He disappeared into the hall for a moment, then returned carrying his briefcase.

‘What is it?' asked Natalie, her curiosity aroused.

George winked mysteriously. ‘Something you'll like very much. Show you after supper.'

Then, finally, he uncorked the brandy bottle and poured a generous measure into the balloon. He raised it to his wife. ‘To us, Natalie. To us.'

She lifted her champagne glass to his, though she could not bring herself to echo his words.

While he ate, George talked, unworried by the spray of crumbs from his mouth. Natalie had forgotten how disgusting she'd always found this habit of his. Still, that was just another detail which would very soon cease to be a problem for her.

‘So what happened with Trevor?' her husband asked, a fleck of yellow egg beading the corner of his mouth.

‘It came to an end,' Natalie lied. ‘I just realized it wasn't working. I fell out of love with him, I suppose, and then it seemed incredible that I had ever loved him. When I came to my senses, I hated myself for what I had done to you. I knew the whole episode had been a ghastly mistake, so I told Trevor it was over.'

‘Ah.' George nodded sagely.

‘And you're fully at liberty to say what you like. God knows, you have the right.'

‘What do you expect me to say?'

‘I don't know. I suppose “I told you so” would be appropriate.'

George Marshall reached across and took his wife's hand. The touch of his flesh felt to her like a thawing chicken breast. ‘I'm not going to say anything like that,' he confided. ‘I'm so delighted to have you back that nothing else matters.'

Natalie managed a weak smile of gratitude.

‘How did Trevor take it?' asked George.

She grimaced.

‘You said on your phone message you were worried about what he might do. Do you mean you're afraid he might turn violent towards you?'

Natalie had prepared her answer to this question carefully. If George thought she was in danger, he might be capable of going round to confront Trevor. The last thing her plans required at that moment was heroics from her husband.

‘Not violent towards me, no. I'm more worried he might turn his violence against himself.' The thought of what she was saying almost made her laugh. Trevor was so uncomplicated, so full of animal vigour, that the idea of his entertaining even a moment's thought of suicide became ridiculous. Natalie began to enjoy embroidering the lie. ‘He was terribly cut up about the whole business . . . you know, with his wife having walked out so recently. I suppose he kind of thought I was his salvation. Certainly, the affair went much deeper with him than it did with me.'

‘So you're genuinely afraid he might try to kill himself?'

Natalie shrugged. ‘I hope not. I hope the thought of his two little kids'll stop him, but . . . yes, I have worried about it. He's very unstable,' she concluded, secretly gleeful at the incongruity of her words.

‘Dear, oh dear,' said George. Then, to his wife's intense satisfaction, he poured another healthy top-up into his brandy glass. To her even greater satisfaction, he picked up a mince pie, lifted its pastry lid and piled the interior with brandy butter.

Speaking through flakes of puff pastry, George continued, ‘Don't you worry about a thing, darling. From what I remember of Trevor, I'd think he was an extremely unlikely candidate for suicide. As you say, he's got the kids to think of, apart from anything else. And, even if he did do something stupid, you shouldn't blame yourself. Suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness. No one else is ever to blame. It involves only the person who commits the act,' he concluded pompously.

‘Well, I hope you're right . . .' said Natalie, playing out her anxiety a little longer, and noting with satisfaction the sight of her husband decapitating a second mince pie and ladling in the brandy butter.

‘Ooh, now, your present . . .' George reminded himself. He crammed the whole pie into his mouth and picked up his briefcase. Holding it on his lap with the lid shielding its contents from his wife, he reached teasingly inside. ‘I don't think you'll ever guess what I've bought you . . .'

Natalie certainly never would have done. She looked with dumb amazement at the silk lingerie set George proudly produced. Trevor enjoyed that sort of thing; she took pleasure in dressing up for their erotic encounters; but George had never shown interest in anything but the most traditional sex – and not a great deal in that.

‘Do you like them?' her husband prompted.

‘Well, yes, but . . . why did you buy them for me?'

George winked roguishly. ‘I read an article in this magazine about how couples who've been married for a long time can . . . as it were . . . recharge their interest in each other.'

Oh my God, thought Natalie, I'm not sure I can cope with this. But then, mercifully, on cue, George yawned.

She waited until he was snoring heavily. To be extra sure, she spoke to him and shook his plump form, but there was no response. Reassured, she went to the phone and told Trevor she needed his help.

Briefly she had contemplated doing the job alone. Though he was chubby, George's lack of height meant that she could have carried him or dragged him without too much difficulty. But second thoughts decided her that she must enlist Trevor. It wasn't so much his physical strength she needed as the fact of his involvement. The murder would be their secret, a shared sacrament that would bind them even closer together. In the hopefully unthinkable eventuality of Trevor losing interest in her, Natalie could use the crime to blackmail him back into line.

Trevor was jumpy when he came round at her summons. He had raised no objections when she had spelled out her plans to him, but the reality of what they were about to do made him nervous. Natalie, on the other hand, was icily efficient and in control.

‘Do we take him out straight away?' asked Trevor tentatively.

She shook her head. ‘I'm just going to go through his pockets first. See there's nothing that might spoil the picture we're trying to create.'

There was nothing that spoiled the picture. Indeed, as she pointed out to Trevor, there was something that improved the picture considerably. ‘These are letters I wrote to him. Look.' She pointed to the words. ‘“. . . So far as I'm concerned, anything there ever was between us has long gone . . .”; “why can't you just accept the whole thing's over . . .” – this is great – couldn't be better.'