smiled his amiable smile and said, ‘Well, well, well. Who would have thought it?’ Water off a duck’s back. Harry had made his excuses and left. He decided he would not be calling there again.
The doorbell rang and Gloria sprang to her feet. ‘This will be your friend, I expect.’
Harry followed her to the door and introduced her to Kim. He had thought about inviting Jim Crusoe to have a look with him at Miller’s effects, but he could readily imagine the big man’s baffled shake of the head. Jim had seemed distracted lately, although Harry could not guess why. Thank God, at least, that he had not pursued the idea of the promotional video filmed by Benny Frederick. When he had suggested to Kim that she might care to accompany him over the weekend, however, she had been quick to say yes.
‘Truth is,’ she said, ‘I’m almost as inquisitive as you. Bear in mind I’ve never even met Miller and yet he seems to have been such an extraordinary man, fascinated by miscarriage cases. It will be marvellous if MOJO can claim on his estate, after all.’
This had been Jim’s idea. He had remembered the small print of the old doctrine of escheat. Since Miller had clearly intended the charity to benefit, the law might permit his wishes to be given effect.
‘I find it hard to think of him as a philanthropist, somehow.’
‘Face it, you don’t have the foggiest what his motives were.’
‘For me, that’s part of the interest. I’d love to get an insight into his mind, to discover what made him the man he was.’
‘And you seriously think you’ll find that out simply by going through what he left behind?’
‘Unlikely,’ Harry admitted, ‘but you will come anyway, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
Now here she was, looking good in Aran sweater and jeans. Accompanied by Gloria Hegg, they opened up next door and Harry made at once for the study on the first floor which still overflowed with Miller’s books and papers. There was an immense amount of junk: old bills, receipts and scribble about household trivia as well as sheet after sheet of foolscap on which Miller had jotted small bits of information about the strangling in Sefton Park. He might not have deduced that Guy was the killer, Harry thought, but had his attention not been distracted by Ray Brill’s revelations, he would surely have done so in time.
Presently, he turned again to the filing cabinet he had looked through on his previous visit. As he glanced again at the folder titles noted on the suspension tabs, a thought occurred to him. Miller had set out in his will instructions a list of all his assets. Yet other than saving certificates, there was nothing that one would normally describe as a long-term investment. He slipped out the folder that bore that description and found that it contained a thin lined notebook. A glance at half a dozen lines of the opening page made him catch his breath. He read them again to make sure he was imagining nothing. But there was no doubt that they were Miller’s words, written in his characteristically over-ornate script and style. Harry could almost hear them being uttered in that odd, pedantic manner Miller had. And he realised that the long-term investment Miller had made in his own life had been one that explained his preoccupation with unsolved crime.
‘Kim!’
She had been downstairs, chatting to Gloria about Miller, but came running up in response to his cry.
‘What is it?’
Harry handed her the notebook. ‘Look at this.’
She turned to page one and stared at the title. ‘ Confession To Murder. Good grief, did Miller write this?’
‘No question.’
She glanced down the first few paragraphs and whistled. ‘I don’t believe it!’
‘I think you should,’ said Harry quietly. ‘It’s quite short. Would you like to read it aloud to me?’
She cleared her throat and gave him a wry smile. ‘Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I killed her many years ago, but I shall never forget the day of her death, when I broke forever with the past and made my murderous dream come true. We always bury our darkest secrets and I feel no sense of guilt at all. I doubt whether people would believe me even if I admitted everything.
I shall put the facts down on paper so that when my own life is at an end, people can judge my confession to the ultimate crime.
In the aftermath of death, I relished the sense of having settled old scores: she was always so provocative. She had only herself to blame: the fatal outcome was inevitable and I had to gamble everything, hoping that luck would be on my side.
People talk about justice, divine retribution. Yet I have concealed a most terrible crime and I may succeed in carrying my secret to the grave. For the record, I do not regret the murder at all, but I have not altogether escaped punishment, since for the rest of my days, I am condemned to stay in this house, where buried beneath the cellar floor lies the bludgeoned body of my wife Marlene.
