Tuesday 27 October1981
Mark was preparing adecent selection of ingredients from his supply of castor beans,fruit pips and stones and thallium. As well as all of that, hethought he might as well try out the death caps for the first timetoo.
It was the dayhe had arranged to take Anne up to London for a night out and heknew that they needed to get on with sorting things out. Gemma wasclearly fed up with her probation job. In fact, of late she seemedto be pretty fed up in general. The only things she had shown anyenthusiasm about recently revolved around the guy who’d got themushrooms for her and was on some kind of probation register,apparently for growing marijuana – mind you, he did sound aninteresting character. Mark put aside a definite twinge of jealousy– Gemma had told him he was fifty-two, after all. They had beendiscussing how to hurry things along with her mother the othernight and Gemma had made it clear that she wanted to get on with itand to have enough money to do what she wanted, and in the not toodistant future as well. It had struck him at the time and he didn’tknow if it was just because he hadn’t noticed it before, but Gemmahad been looking really good recently. She’d started swimming acouple of evenings a week, driving the ten miles or so up to thepublic pool at Haslemere; and she’d taken to wearing tight t-shirtsor jumpers over jeans, all of which highlighted her great figure.She was a good few years younger than him and looked it, and herealised he’d need to make sure he kept her happy and, as shereminded him from time to time, well off.
They had onlybeen up to Farnham a couple of times since the soiree-cum-party,just over a month ago now and time was beginning to drag. On eachoccasion Mark had done the cooking and added a little of hisfavourite flavouring, ricin made from castor beans; but now was thetime to really go for it. After all, it had taken a good few weeksto wear Jean, his previous mother-in-law, down and she haddefinitely been in a worse general state of body and mind than Annebefore he had begun the process.
Mark had setoff for Farnham early that afternoon. Gemma had helped to persuadeher mother it would be good for her to get out and that it would bea nice opportunity for her and Mark to get to know one another.Also that Gemma would be happy to have some time to herself whilethey were away – which wasn’t a lie. She had always liked to haveher own space, to use that irritating description, but since they’dmoved in together, and with Mark not working, she’d rarely had anytime without him being there, and it was beginning to do more thanjust niggle her. Once the date had been agreed Anne had arrangedfor her and Mark to stay over at her friend Ruth’s flat, just offOxford Street; Mark had suggested that it would be too late to getback after going to see some live music at the Marquee and theymight as well make a night of it. He’d even prepared a couple ofversions of his signature shepherd’s pie in the usual separateindividual casserole dishes, one with edible mushrooms added, theother an additional sprinkling of fly agaric and death’s cap. Onlya small amount the first time: he needed to monitor the results tobegin with. It’d be too obvious if he overdid it. Mind you, he haddone a bit of research and discovered that poisoning from mushroomswas a pretty common occurrence. Of course, it might be easy enoughto recognise at autopsy but he reckoned the symptoms could easilybe confused with a bout of gastroenteritis.
As he drove intoFarnham and on to Lynch Lane he wondered if this was his realidentity, and destiny too. The slightly disarming thing was that itall seemed so normal. The back door was unlocked and Mark wentstraight in; he found Anne in her usual spot in the living room.After checking that the housekeeper, Edith, had left for the day hesuggested they eat something there before taking the train up toWaterloo.
‘Good idea toline our stomachs, Anne. I fancy a few drinks and a good night outlater.’
Anne lookedquite presentable, at first glance anyway. The heavily appliedmake-up had done a reasonable job in hiding the stretched skin anddeepest wrinkles and her trouser suit over a high-necked blouse hidthe bony chest and protruding collar bones. He had never been ableto understand the obsession so many women seemed to have fordeveloping a gaunt and emaciated, almost cadaverous, look. It wassomething to blame the sixties for and certainly didn’t do anythingfor Mark. After all Marilyn Monroe’s shoulder blades and clavicleshad been well hidden, as were those of Rita Hayworth, Lana Turnerand the Hollywood icons of earlier decades; and it was curvaceousfemales who inspired the classic paintings of Rubens and Rembrandt,and before them the Renaissance masters such as Titian andCorreggio. Anyway, all that was by the by. He pulled up a chair andlaunched into action.
‘You look well Anne,and the trouser suit’s very nice.’
Anne smiled athim.
‘You know it’s goodof you to take time out for me, Mark. I’m going to make sure I havea good time. I’ve been having odd stomach pains and cramps recentlyand I’m fed up with just sitting around feeling my age.’
That soundedpositive, and as
