Robbie's Wife (27 page)

“No, Jack. I was in the neighborhood and I dropped by to see if you were in.”

“Ho, ho, ho.”

“Not funny, am I? Christ, Jack, what’s it take to get a laugh out of you?”

“I didn’t expect to see you, Graham. Ever again.”

“Well, Jack, you were probably right in that assumption. No point in my coming around, is there?”

“So, why are you here?”

“A bit of news, Jack.”

“What kind of news?”

“About your Maggie.”

“Something’s happened to her?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“It has to do with me?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“Come on, Graham, quit fucking around.”

“How many times did you shag her, Jack?”

“What the hell kind of a question is that?” He was still leaning on his elbows, as if he were having a conversation in a bar with a friend. All he needed was a pint in one hand.

“Come on, Jack, remind me. How many times? Ten? Twenty?”

I thought back to Sheepheaven Farm, remembering Maggie slipping into bed on a dark morning, whispering ‘fuck me, Jack Stone.’

“It’s none of your goddamn business, Graham.”

“Come on, Jack,” he wheedled. “Tell me you shagged her fifty times. It gives my news a bit of a lift.”

“What news are you talking about?”

“How many times, Jack? I know you told me, but remind me, will you? A rough estimate.”

He leaned back in his chair, smiling, as if enjoying a private joke. I held up two fingers.

“Are you giving me the finger, Jack? Or are you telling me it was only two times?”

Two times. I mouthed the words silently.

“Twice? Only twice? Holy shit, Jack, that makes her the most expensive fuck since Cleopatra got laid.”

“You mean it’s three and half years for each time, is that it, you ambulance chaser?”

“No, it comes out to more than a hundred thousand pounds for each trick, Jack.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Graham?”

“It seems your sweet little Dorset farm wife took out an insurance policy on her husband.”

“So?”

“It was an unusual policy, Jack. One of those polices that doesn’t cost very much because the likelihood of the payoff is so rare. A bit like insuring your granny against getting pregnant.”

“What sort of a policy?”

“It was an accidental death policy, the usual kind. If Robbie died in an ordinary sort of accident, run over by a lorry, fell off the shed roof, it only paid a few hundred pounds. But if he were to be the victim of a violent crime, then the ante went up. Get mugged in Poole, lose an eye, five thousand pounds. Both eyes, ten. Legs, arms, that sort of thing. But it has to be part of a criminal act, and the chances of a sheep farmer in Dorset getting done in by a mugger are about the same as winning the lottery, Jack. Which is why the premium isn’t dear. Now here’s the punchline: if he gets killed, mind you the killer has to be convicted for the criminal act of doing him in, or at least doing the act that led to his death, then it goes up to two hundred thousand. There has to be a conviction in order to get a payoff. And, if it happens to him right there on his own property, they tack on another fifty. Know what that means, Jack?”

I shook my head.

“Your Dorset farm wife is a quarter of a million quid richer than she was when you showed up. She won the lottery, Jack. And it looks like you bought the ticket.”

“But Maggie had no way of knowing what would happen to Robbie!”

“Of course not, Jack. Rather gives you a bit of a start, though, doesn’t it? She takes out the policy and not a month later here you come, and suddenly she’s got her knickers down and you’re all hot and bothered. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

“Graham, when I said to her, ‘What if there were no Robbie,’ she said it was a stupid question. She dismissed it outright! It wasn’t an option as far as she was concerned!”

“I suppose not. Still, things worked out for her, didn’t they? The insurance company had to pay since you raised your hand to the deed. She never even appeared in court, did she Jack? You made sure of that. So, in the end, she collected.”

“But Maggie said she didn’t want anyone to get hurt. She told me that in no uncertain terms, Graham.”

“And you believed her?”

“Of course I did.”

And I could hear Maggie’s voice saying, “If I asked you to swim the river for me tonight, you would, wouldn’t you?” Her voice came to me, whole, as if she were there in the long room with the tables and the buzz of talk and the hum of the overhead lights, but I could hear her and I could hear myself saying, “Yes.”

“What was it Hoad told you on that tape of your last interview? ‘It only matters if they believe you.’ Something like that, was it?”

I could see Maggie in her kitchen, hugging her arms to her chest, facing me.

“And you believed her, Jack, did you?”

I nodded.

“She’s not only a good fuck, she’s a clever lass, too.”

He bent over and began to search in a briefcase propped against his chair. I watched him fish out a computer disk in a plastic envelope. He laid it on the table.

“It’s not the original, Jack. That’s still in the lockup. But this is courtesy of DC Hoad. I told him there might be an appeal. I like him. He’s not your usual copper. He asked me to tell you to be on the lookout for a woman in a clown suit.”

He pinned the plastic envelope to the surface of the table with his thumb and using his forefinger, traced the outline of the disk. “As long as your screenplay is a work of fiction, Jack, there’s nothing in English law to prevent you from finishing it.” He picked up the envelope, held it in front of me.

“I can get a hard copy made and you can have it. It’s a legal document and you’re entitled to it. And you can write whatever you want. It’s up to you. My guess is that you only need to figure out the ending.”

He dropped the plastic envelope back into his briefcase. An officer was behind him and the visiting hour was up. A woman who vaguely resembled Maggie passed behind him and I realized that I could not conjure up a clear picture of Maggie’s face. It was as if she had drifted out of focus and I could not bring her back. And then I could see her, standing in the darkness of the stone cottage next to the river, and she was saying, “Things don’t just happen by themselves. We make them happen.”

There was a rising murmur of voices in the room, chairs scraping on the floor and I was conscious of Graham speaking to me.

“Jack? You OK?”

I nodded.

“What’s this clown suit that Hoad wants you to look for?”