Andrew Maynard’s cleaner, Mrs Skipper, always arrived promptly at six a.m. She would tidy the house, prepare breakfast and cook an evening meal he could heat when he wanted it. Andrew Maynard was meticulous about his domestic routines. He did not like her to be there all day, or to stay overnight. He hated to work in his study with the sound of vacuuming, or the smell of cooking lingering in the air. By nine he had jogged, showered and breakfasted and had given Mrs Skipper a list of shopping, laundry or dry-cleaning collections. By ten his secretary was installed, the coffee percolating and the newspapers neatly laid out, and Maynard was ready for work, as immaculate and fresh as his small terraced house. Maynard had chosen the house because of its location and politically correct lack of ostentation. William had offered to buy him a larger property, but he had refused point-blank.
Mrs Skipper had been working for Maynard for the past five years. She knew as little about his private life now as she had when she started, and what she did know she had gleaned from the newspapers: when he took her on, she had signed a confidentiality agreement. He had explained that in his profession it was imperative he could trust those closest to him. As far as she knew, Maynard was a man of unimpeachable character, a young man on the threshold of a glittering political career, which even she could see was about to soar.
That morning Mrs Skipper picked up the single bottle of skimmed milk left by the milkman and, frowning, noticed that the bedroom curtains were still drawn. She let herself into number twelve. Mr Maynard was always up by this time so that she could make his bed and collect the dirty laundry. She went into the kitchen, which was as she had left it the evening before. This, too, was unusuaclass="underline" he always put his dirty supper dishes into the sink ready for her to rinse and load into the dishwasher. As she put the milk into the fridge, she noticed that the evening meal she had prepared yesterday was still in its tin-foil-covered dish. Mrs Skipper began to unbutton her coat, looking around for the note that was left each day on the kitchen table.
There was no note. She hung up her coat and fetched her apron, then walked back down the narrow hallway towards the stairs. She looked up, listening, wondering if her employer was upstairs in the bathroom — perhaps something had made him late for his morning jog and he was still out. Maybe he was ill. ‘Mr Maynard?’ she called tentatively.
The house was eerily silent — she was used to hearing the radio or television news when she came in. She began to mount the stairs, pausing midway to call his name again, but there was no reply.
His bedroom was dark and the bed had not been slept in. The bathroom door was closed, and a suit, shirt and underwear were laid neatly across the bed. She went back out into the hall and tapped on his study door. It swung open, revealing the tidy desk, a stack of memos and mail lined up by the bank of telephones. She pulled the cord to open the curtains and, in the light, looked at the desk for some kind of sign. A yellow Post-it had been stuck to his blotter with a phone number. His address book was open and another sticker on the open page bore the same number and, underlined, an odd message: ‘Call this number. Do not go into the bathroom.’
More worried by the minute, Mrs Skipper returned to the kitchen. Now she noticed that the back door was ajar. She opened it wide and looked out into the garden, which was empty. Mrs Skipper closed the door and locked it. It was then that she felt the drip of water from the ceiling above. She looked up and listened. Maynard’s bathroom was directly above the kitchen.
Mrs Skipper went upstairs again and listened at the closed bathroom door. Now she could hear water running softly and, looking down saw the creeping stain growing darker as it seeped into the carpet and edged into the bedroom. She turned the bathroom door handle. It was not locked, and she pushed it open and froze in shock at the sight of Maynard’s body, partly submerged, and his hands, floating, with deep gashes at the wrists from which blood still trailed.
‘Call this number. Do not go into the bathroom,’ the yellow note had said, each word heavily underlined. Mrs Skipper moved back into the office, reached for the phone and dialled.
The telephone’s shrill ring woke William from his reverie. He waited a beat, hoping his housekeeper would pick it up, but eventually got up and answered it himself. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.
It was an hysterical woman, babbling incomprehensibly.
‘Who is this?’ he said coldly. It was William’s personal phone. Only a handful of people had the number; this woman must have misdialled. Then William heard Maynard’s name. He tried to slow the woman down. ‘I can’t understand what you’re saying,’ he said, and told her to take a deep breath.
‘He’s dead, sir. Please come.’
‘Has there been an accident?’ William asked. The phone felt clammy in his hand. When he realized what she was telling him, his heart lurched. ‘Listen to me! Do nothing until I get there, do you understand? Wait until I see you. Do not call anyone until I get there.’
His heart was still thudding as he drove from his four-storey house in The Boltons towards Ladbroke Grove.
When he saw Maynard, he became icy calm. Mrs Skipper was sitting at the kitchen table below. He could hear her sobbing. She had refused to accompany him up the stairs, so William was forced to confront the grotesque sight of Andrew Maynard’s body alone. His first reaction was of stunned horror, as if the scene before him was some sick theatrical set-up. Nothing he knew about Maynard had prepared him for this. He didn’t touch the body, but looked down into the open eyes, the dark hair floating around the head, and reached forward to turn off the taps. Maynard’s blood had stained the water a soft shell pink. The cuts in his wrists were deep and blood had sprayed down the bathroom tiles. Beside the bath was an empty gin bottle, and an overturned crystal glass with a slice of lemon still resting at the bottom.
William went to Maynard’s study, pocketed the note with his phone number on it, and looked around for Maynard’s diary, address book and any personal papers. He placed them in his own briefcase, and searched for a suicide note before returning to the bedroom. He found it partly hidden beneath the bathtub. It was sodden from the overflowing water and the ink was blurred, which made the few hastily scribbled lines hard to decipher, but William could see it was addressed to him.
Dear William,
I have no ambition left, just heartbreak and terrible longing.
I am sorry,
William read and re-read it. It made little sense to him. What heartbreak, what longing had made Andrew take his own life? He felt numb and confused, as if he still could not believe what had happened. Eventually he called the police and sat waiting for their arrival, studying the note as it dried in his hands. Maynard’s death would create a media frenzy, and one part of his brain was already wondering who would be the best man to hire for damage control.
Five hours later William returned home. He had his own press office prepare a statement, but no matter what he said, Maynard’s death would cause one hell of a scandal. William poured himself a brandy, retired to his drawing room and started checking through the papers he had removed from Maynard’s study. He had made no mention of them to the police, but they had taken the suicide note. They had asked if it was Maynard’s handwriting, and William had nodded, but in reality it was so smudged it was hard to tell. The large bundle of personal letters he placed to one side as he flicked through the first leatherbound desk diary filled with appointments, then Maynard’s private diary.