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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
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.