one for which he had made adequate preparations and one which he stood at least a fifty/fifty chance of winning.
His daughter also, as discoverer of the body, suffered further questioning. The shock had told badly on her and in her emotion she became more of an adult. Not, though, the sort of adult who appealed to her father. She took on more and more of her mother’s mannerisms, which were of course Lilian Hinchcliffe’s mannerisms. As her grandmother’s influence grew, Emma became more like her. It was as if, with her daughter removed, Lilian immediately worked to replace her with another clone. Emma was fully recruited into the exclusive conspiracy of womanhood. The two now wept and emoted in unison.
Henry was apparently taking his mother’s death less hard. With the brutality of adolescence, he was even heard to make jokes about it. A psychologist might well have recognised this behaviour as a defence and discovered the suffering core of a bewildered child, but Graham was no psychologist and did not feel the interest to investigate.
With the frail link of Merrily removed, his children seemed more than ever strangers. Four of them sat side by side in the Coroner’s Court, but to Graham the others were irrelevant. He was the champion, in peak condition, though he still faced the most daunting challenge of his career.
The proceedings were short. The Coroner called a variety of witnesses. A doctor gave the evidence of the post-mortem on Merrily’s little body. A statement by Emma was read out. Lilian described her arrival at the house on Emma’s summons and the policeman, whom she in turn had called, stated what he had found. The electrician who had surveyed the house for rewiring confirmed his views of its lethal state. The Coroner regretted this terrible tragedy to a young family, spoke of the need for constant awareness of the dangers of superannuated electrical systems, and a verdict of accidental death was recorded.
Graham Marshall had cleared another huge hurdle.
The cremation had been set up in advance; only the Coroner’s verdict was required before the arrangements could proceed.
It was fixed for the following day. Lilian scoured the house for black and kitted out herself and the children like something from a Dickens serial on BBC-2. Graham wore a light suit and a black knitted tie. He tried to keep the bounce out of his step as he walked from the hearse to the crematorium chapel.
It was as he would have wished it. Clean, anonymous, functional. It reminded him of the hotel in Brussels where he had been only ten days before.
The officiating clergyman also achieved anonymity. His short address made no secret of the fact that he had never met Merrily. Her virtues were generalised, her identity withdrawn into platitude.
The turnout was small. Beyond the family, the odious Vivvi and a couple of other representatives of Merrily’s gynaecological Mafia had come, but none of their husbands had deemed the occasion worth a day’s leave.
At the back of the chapel Charmian sniffed quietly, alone. She had tried to greet Lilian, but her mother had cut her dead, shepherding the children away from their aunt as if from a flasher in the park.
Lilian and Emma also snuffled throughout the service. Henry remained balefully impassive. Graham managed a few coughs and throat-clearings that could have been interpreted as emotion and which contained the exhilaration inside him.
At the appointed moment the anonymous curtains slowly closed on the futile expense of the pale pine coffin. When they slowly reopened, the ponderous conjuring trick was done. The coffin had vanished, consigned to the fierce blue gas jets within.
And Merrily was gone. A powdering of ash to be scattered. More plantfood for the roses in the Garden of Remembrance.
The feeling of power surged through Graham like lust.
The few friends shook hands with the family outside, murmuring stock condolences. No arrangements had been made for a drink afterwards and none seemed required. Vivvi and her coven drifted away.
Charmian was the last out of the chapel. She had spent a moment repairing her make-up. The tears were gone, but she was still in the grip of deep emotion.
Lilian bridled instantly at the sight of her prodigal daughter. ‘Come on, Emma. Henry. We must be moving.’ She started towards the car. Then turned back to her son-in-law.
‘Graham.’
‘I’ll be along in a moment.’
Lilian’s parting sniff contained more affront than suffering. Charmian looked at her brother-in-law. The grey eyes were full of pain, but had not lost their knowing quality. He felt a strange bond with her, an urge to confide, to tell her what he had done, in some obscure expectation of praise.
But he said nothing, just her name. ‘Charmian.’
The grey eyes still held his stare. They disconcerted him. They seemed to see too much. He looked down at the ground, conscious of a scuff-mark on one of her black patent shoes. ‘Graham, I want to talk to you. It’s very important.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Charmian. ‘It’s about Merrily’s death.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘My feelings about Merrily are complex. Always have been. Now she’s dead they are even more confused.’
Graham’s eyes wandered round Charmian’s living-room as she spoke. It was the evening of the cremation. He had left Lilian to settle the children and gone out without specifying his destination. Deviousness, covering his tracks, was becoming a habit.
His flickering glances took in the dark brown paint, the loaded pine bookshelves, the terra cotta plant pots suspended in harnesses of knotted string, the giant floor cushions, the hand-woven rugs on the wall. It was all yesterday’s trends, dating from the time when Charmian was at her most successful, when pop journalists were being snapped up as feature writers, when she had had a regular column in one of the Sundays. She had been married then, too. The house had been a mutual project, the work of a pair of London trendsetters. But now the marriage and the column were long gone. Charmian survived as a freelance journalist, spreading her net ever wider to increasingly obscure publications as the impetus of her reputation slowed. If she had not received the house as part of the divorce settlement, her life would be precarious; as it was, she was safe but not affluent. Her surroundings reflected this. The paintwork was a little battered, there was too much dust, the windowpanes wore a filter of grime.
Through the front windows Graham could see the spiked railings that protected the steps down to the basement. He had a quick image of a body impaled on them, one viscously gleaming point emerging from the stretched bulk of clothes. Anyone who jumped from the upstairs window would land like that. So would anyone who was pushed.
Pleasing fantasies of murder methods were now part of the regular stock of his thoughts. His imaginative life, he felt, had been considerably enriched since he became a murderer. Railings, yes, good. With comparable satisfaction he noted the tangle of wires and adaptors that fed the randomly assembled stereo components. He didn’t want to repeat himself, but the set-up offered plenty of opportunities for electrical accidents.
It was all hypothetical, of course. Casual conjecture. He was merely making a professional assessment of the situation and its possibilities. At the moment he had no reason to kill Charmian. It rather depended on what she felt such urgency to discuss with him.
He concentrated his mind on her analysis of the relationship she had had with her sister.
‘It’s an awful thing to admit, particularly of someone so recently dead, but I never liked her.’
Graham offered no reaction, and Charmian continued, ‘Obviously childhood recollections are all mixed up and it’s hard to disentangle my feelings for Merrily from those I have for my mother. I think I turned against Lilian when our father walked out, when I was about twelve. We never got on after that. I just became increasingly aware of her selfishness and affectation. And Merrily seemed to get daily more like her. I’m sorry, but I thought my late sister was a profoundly silly woman.’
