I put my mouth right next to Richard’s ear and I shout as loud as I can, ‘We have to go back for him!’
‘No!’
I can’t believe I’ve heard him right.
‘No!’ He shouts it a second time. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘But he’ll die.’
‘To hell with him! Leave him!’
I can’t believe it. But I look at him and see that he is yellow, that he’s crying like a baby. I swear at him and I crawl back towards the contortion. And there he is. Charlie. Standing up. I can’t see his head. Just his feet and his legs coming out of the bottom of the tube and I guess that his cow’s tail or something has got caught and he hasn’t got any purchase. He needs to pull himself up to release it. And I could help him but then water starts jetting through and it’s black in the light of my head torch and all the walls are shuddering and I think if I wait another second I’m going to die here and I turn round and crawl away as fast as I can, leaving Charlie to stand there and drown.
That’s what happened, love. I’m not saying we could have saved him, but we could have tried. Maybe we could have got him out before the main surge hit. But we didn’t. We made it to the crack and waited there while the water rushed out underneath us. Then we followed it to the exit. We were both soaked and we were exhausted. We were covered in cuts, I suppose from the falling rocks. We were lucky to be alive but we didn’t feel that way. We were disgusted with what we’d done, both of us. Me as much as him.
I’m not going to pretend that I was any better than Richard, but I want you to know that it was him who said what we were going to do once we got out. Once a lawyer, always a lawyer. I always heard he had a reputation for telling the truth but that wasn’t what he did this time, not when it would have stayed with him for the rest of his life. And think what it would have done for his career!!! Not the Blunt Razor. The Blubbing Loser. He made up the story about Charlie getting lost in Spaghetti Junction. We pretended we’d gone back in looking for him. In fact, we went straight up to Chris’s place at Ing Lane Farm and got him to call out cave rescue.
That’s half the story. My hand has already got cramp, sitting here, writing. I need to finish this and move on. So I’ll be brief.
I never really spoke to Richard again after that. Of course we were both at the inquest and you saw us together once or twice. But I couldn’t look him in the eye. I was disgusted with him. He made me sick. But I was also disgusted with myself. If the two of us had gone straight back together, I think we could have got Charlie out. But we left it too late. I never went caving again after that. You know that. Now you know why.
And then I got ill and the NHS couldn’t help and you told me to go down to London and talk to Richard. Did you never wonder why I was so against it? Why I put my foot down every time? We had all those arguments and I know I was upsetting you, but I never wanted to see him again and anyway, I knew in my heart that he probably wouldn’t help. The very sight of me would just remind him of the coward and the liar that he was. But you wouldn’t take no for an answer. You more or less dragged me on to the train. And this is the result of it. Here I am.
Do you know, I very nearly didn’t go to his posh house in Hampstead. I nearly rang him to say that I’d changed my mind. I was going to tell you that he’d refused to give me any money for my treatment and leave it at that. But I can’t lie to you, Sue. Long Way Hole was the only time in all our years together that I lied to you and it made me sick to my stomach. I went to see him, just like you wanted. And just like I expected, he turned me down flat.
He wasn’t anything like the man I remembered. Well, he was only a lad really, nineteen, when we first met. He was very polite. He invited me in. He offered me a cup of tea. But when I told him why I was there, he refused to help. He said that in view of what had happened, he didn’t think it was appropriate for him to involve himself in my affairs. Words like that. The strange thing is that over the years I think he’d persuaded himself that I was to blame. Well, I’d been the one who’d seen the storm clouds. That had all come out at the inquest and it was a matter of public record that I was the one who gave the go-ahead. (He even used those words . . . I wanted to punch him when I heard them coming out of his mouth.) But somehow he’d managed to conflate everything so that it was as much my decision as his to leave Charlie behind. Well, I could write more. I could write until the cows come home. But the bottom line is he threw me out.
This is the difficult part, Susan. This is the bit I don’t want to write. And it’s why you’re going to have to wait six long months until you finally learn the truth.
I’m going to kill myself. You know I’m no good as an invalid. I don’t like doctors and pills and all the hospital rubbish and I don’t like you and the girls seeing me sitting there, suffering. I want you to remember me how I was – the good and the bad bits – and not as an invalid, in pain. I’ve worked out what I’m going to do and I’m going to make certain it looks like an accident so those insurance weasels will be sure to pay out.
But first of all I’m going to tell Davina Richardson what really happened to her husband. Richard may breathe a sigh of relief when he hears I’m gone but I don’t see why he should get away with it. She doesn’t live too far from here and I just called her on her home line and she’s in. We didn’t speak. But we will. I’m going to make her promise not to tell anyone I’ve been there and then she’ll do the dirty work for me. Bring Richard down and wipe that lawyer’s smile off his face.
I don’t want to end writing about Richard. When you pulled that first pint for me back in Leeds, I knew straight off that you were the girl for me. You were beautiful then and you’re beautiful now. I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but that’s true of every marriage and, sitting here, I remember only the good bits. Our two girls, to start with. But that visit to Skye. Running the Three Peaks. Coniston Water. That weekend we had in Paris when we lost the passports. All the laughter. I hope you get married again, love. You should. You’re the best.
Try to forgive me for what I have to do.
Your loving husband,
Greg.
The letter was sent to Gwendolyn James in Huddersfield. She passed it on to the police. It is reproduced here by kind permission of Susan Taylor, Gregory Taylor’s widow.
About the Author
ANTHONY HOROWITZ, one of the UK’s most prolific and successful writers, may have committed more (fictional) murders than any other living author. His novels include Magpie Murders, Trigger Mortis, Moriarty, The House of Silk, The Word Is Murder, and the bestselling Alex Rider series for young adults. As a television screenwriter he created both Midsomer Murders and the BAFTA-winning Foyle’s War on PBS. He lives in London.