Beneath The Skin

“Do the boys know yet?”

I very nearly laughed at this.

“The idea of informing Josh over the phone that his father-well, it didn’t seem such a good idea. No, I’m sure that Dr. Schilling would recommend doing it face-to-face.”

“It’s probably better.”

“And I spent most of the afternoon on the phone to my architect and my various builders and Francis, my brilliant gardener. We’re flying back at the beginning of next week and then we can get going on the house.”

Lynne lit another cigarette and then caught my eye and lit me one.

“Won’t that feel strange?” she said. “Starting all that again?”

“It’s different this time,” I said. “That’s why it took so long on the phone. They’re going to come and patch things up, slap some white paint on the walls, put some shrubs in the garden. Then I’m putting the house on the market.”

Lynne’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Are you sure?” she said.

“What I’d really like is to burn the house down with everything inside it and make a run for it. But selling it will have to do.”

“You’ve only just moved in.”

“I can hardly bear the sight of it. I’ve been unhappy here. I suppose it’s not the house’s fault, but still…”

“Have you talked to Dr. Schilling?”

“Why should I talk to her?” I said, a bit belligerently. “Grace Schilling’s job was to use her professional skill to catch the man harassing me. Well, he’s caught.” I stopped myself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. Again.”

“That’s all right.”

“In fact, all in all, this probably hasn’t been the most enjoyable job you’ve ever had to do.”

“Why?”

“Trying to look after a bad-tempered, miserable woman.”

Lynne looked serious.

“You shouldn’t say that. It was awful. We all felt terrible for you. We still do.”

“Still?”

“Look, we’re glad we caught the person who did this. We’re not glad for you that it was Mr. Hintlesham.”

I took some time to reply. I was looking over Lynne’s shoulder at the garden. It was difficult to believe that even Francis could get this into a salable shape within a fortnight. We’d see.

“I just keep remembering details of our marriage and wondering how it could have happened. I know we had difficulties, but I don’t see why he had to hate me so much. What had I done to him, what had that poor girl, Zoe, done except climb into bed with him?” Lynne looked me in the eyes. She didn’t turn away, I’ll say that for her. But she didn’t reply. “And even if he hated me so much, would he have wanted to kill me? And to make me suffer? Well, could he? Say something.”

Lynne looked a bit shifty.

“I’ve got to be careful,” she said. “With the committal hearing and everything. But people do things like that. Mr. Hintlesham had met somebody else. He knew that you wouldn’t give him a divorce.” She gave a shrug. “The last murder I dealt with, a fourteen-year-old boy killed his granny because she wouldn’t lend him the money to buy a lottery ticket. It’s like one of my sergeants used to say: You don’t need qualifications to be a murderer.”

“So he could have done it. Do you think he’ll be found guilty?”

Lynne paused before speaking.

“The Crown Prosecution Service say that we’ve got to be confident of a seventy-five percent chance of conviction before we charge anybody. As far as I know, there was no hesitation about charging your husband. We’ve got the clear connection with the dead girl, Zoe, and his attempts to lie about it. There’s the lack of an alibi. His threats against you, his affair and motivation. We’ve got a good case.”

“What if the murder is tried separately?” I asked cautiously.

“No chance,” said Lynne. “The identical notes to the two of you make the cases inseparable.”

“Half the time I think that he’s innocent and will be found guilty. The other half I think he’s guilty and that he’ll go free. He’s clever. He’s a lawyer. I don’t know what to think.”

“He won’t get off,” said Lynne firmly.

We drank up our coffees and finished our cigarettes.

“Have you packed?” she asked.

“That’s on my list,” I said. “I’m only taking a small bag.”

She looked at her watch.

“I think I’d better go,” she said.

“I’ll feel strange being unsupervised,” I said.

“You won’t be entirely unsupervised. We’ll keep an eye.”

I pulled a slightly sarcastic face.

“Does that mean you’re not entirely sure?”

“Just to see you’re all right.”

And she was gone.

I didn’t have lunch. No time. Packing was a little more complicated than I had suggested to Lynne. Normally I’m a world champion at packing exactly the right amount, but I was feeling a bit strange and I felt I was doing everything a little bit slowly, as if I were underwater or on the moon. And even though I was doing things more slowly, I also had to think about them more carefully.

The phone kept ringing, as well. I had rather a long conversation with Clive’s lawyer. It consisted of us slightly dancing around each other. I wasn’t at all clear that we were on the same side, and by the end of it I was wondering whether I oughtn’t to think of getting my own lawyer. Several people rang for Josh: his violin teacher, that fellow Hack from the computer club who said Josh had asked him to drop a game round, and Marcus, one of his friends. And a couple of my friends-or Clive’s friends-called who had clearly heard that something funny was going on. In each case I put them off with a series of excuses that didn’t quite amount to bare-faced lies.

With the state I was in, I thought I’d better leave in hugely good time for the plane, so I ordered a cab and ran around the house in a frenzy of closing windows and half-closing curtains. I had phoned Mary. She would come in and switch on lights in the evening. Anyway, what was there to steal? They were welcome to it. One thing more. Long transatlantic flight. Soft shoes. I had a pair of nice blue canvas slip-ons. Where were they? Had I even unpacked them since the move? I remembered. Bedroom cupboard. At the top. I ran upstairs. In the bedroom- our bedroom I would once have said-I looked around. I could see nothing I’d forgotten.

There was a knock at the door. I don’t mean the front door. A rap at the bedroom door.

“Mrs. Hintlesham?”

“What?” I said, startled.

A face peered round the door. I was completely baffled for a moment. You know when you see a face completely out of its normal setting. A good-looking young man in jeans and a T-shirt and a black work jacket. Long dark hair. Who was he?

“Hack. What are you-”

“That’s not my real name. That’s just something that impresses the boys.”

“What’s your real name?”

“Morris,” he said. “Morris Burnside.”

“Well, Morris Burnside, I’m in a bit of a rush. I’m off to the airport.”

“The game,” he said, brandishing a gaudy package. “I rang, remember? Sorry, the door was open and I wandered in. I shouted from downstairs.”

“Oh. Well, you’re lucky you caught me. The cab will be here at any moment.”

He was actually panting, as if he’d been running.

“Yes, I’m really glad because… It’s not just the game. I saw the evening paper. There’s something in it about your husband being charged.”