Once again, Graham felt relaxed by her presence. Again the silly urge to tell her about the murder was in him, but he knew he must not give way to it. Its pressure was almost titillating.
‘When they do live with me,’ Charmian continued, ‘I don’t suppose you will come and see them very often.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I don’t think you care very much for them, Graham.’
He smiled. Her frankness, and the accuracy of her assessment, were disarming.
‘You have it in one, Charmian.’
She didn’t smile.
He pressed on. ‘I don’t deny it. Too many people, to my mind, pretend to emotions that convention demands of them. I have done that for too long. Now I’m going to stop. From now on I will accept what I really think, act on it.’
‘Yes.’ Charmian paused. ‘So this has all worked out very well for you. Merrily dying, me offering to have the children.
He nodded. ‘It has worked out very well for me. I’m grateful to you. And I’m glad that you couldn’t face the idea of their being brought up by Lilian.’
‘You’re right. I couldn’t. I had to save them from that.’
‘Yes,’ Graham agreed smugly.
‘But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to have them.’
‘Ah.’
‘No. I thought they were in danger from my mother, but, my God, I think they’d be in even more danger if they were being brought up by you.’
‘What?’
The grey eyes glowed with anger. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Graham, but it’s always frightened me. There’s something missing in your emotional circuitry. Your detachment is too total. You have no compassion. You are a monster. You frighten me.’
Graham Marshall felt as if he had been slapped in the face.
Leaving a large company is a slow process for senior personnel. The number of farewell celebrations increases with the number of years of service and the level attained in the hierarchy. George Brewer, who had joined Crasoco at twenty-two straight out of Cambridge and ended his career as Head of Personnel, qualified for the maximum number of send-offs possible.
The first was scheduled for a full month before his official retirement date, and took advantage of a board meeting on that day to assemble some of the company’s top brass for a lunchtime drinks party in one of the twelfth-floor hospitality rooms. The atmosphere was relaxed. The board members had little idea who George was and could therefore be impersonally charming. His immediate superiors and colleagues knew there was a long sequence of such occasions ahead and felt no pressure to pass on messages of great pertinence to the retiring Head. And George himself, with a couple of drinks inside him, shed his self-pity and recaptured some of his former urbanity.
Robert Benham and Graham were both invited and they met as the uniformed waitress proffered a drinks tray. Graham took a gin and tonic, Robert an orange juice.
The waitress disappeared and left them facing each other. ‘Terry Sworder,’ said Robert, stripping the cellophane off a small cigar.
‘Yes. What about him?’
‘Gather you’ve set up an annual interview for him tomorrow.’ Robert lit the cigar. Graham had to restrain himself from reaching for his lighter.
‘Yes. It is due.’
‘It’s not your place to set it up.’
‘On the contrary, Robert. It most certainly is my place. George asked me some years back to make all such arrangements.’
‘And to actually take the interviews?’
Graham, as he knew his father would have done, noted the split infinitive and felt a sense of superiority. Robert Benham, whatever his skills, was really just a common little man.
‘In a lot of cases, yes, my actually taking the interview would help George, reduce his workload a bit.’
This was rewarded by a snort of contempt which showed Robert to have little opinion of his boss’s workload.
‘And you were planning to do Terry Sworder’s interview, were you?’
‘Yes, I was. George has got a lot on his plate at the moment.’
‘Bugger all, except a great series of do’s like this.’
‘That may appear to be the case, but I think it will be more convenient for him if — ’
‘The interview’s been postponed for six weeks. When it happens, I’ll take it.’
Graham smiled submissively. ‘I don’t think George will be very happy to find — ’
‘I’ve told George. He agrees.’
There was insolence in Robert Benham’s stare. The hostility between them was no longer disguised. Then, as if he had read Graham’s intentions towards Sworder, the younger man asked, ‘By the way, when’s your annual interview coming up?’
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Graham felt as if he had been slapped.
Later, as he half-listened to a board member’s condolences for Merrily’s death, his attention was monopolised by his rival’s voice. He knew he was becoming obsessive about Robert Benham, but he couldn’t help listening as the younger man discovered that David Birdham, the Managing Director, shared his enthusiasm for sailing.
‘Oh yes, David, I’ve just got a little twenty-foot job. Four berths, but sails all right. Well, I get down there as often as I can. Got her moored at Bosham, yes. Not this weekend, no. My girlfriend’s over from the States and we’ve promised ourselves a couple of days’ pampering at the Randolph in Oxford. But the next weekend, certainly, I’ll have the boat out on the Sunday. After that I’ve a feeling I’m going to be rather busy. Once George has finally gone, there’ll be plenty to do. Whole Department needs a big shake-up. Actually, David, wanted to talk to you at some point about the Department’s name. . “Personnel” has a very dated feel. Really think we should be talking about “Human Resources” these days.’
David Birdham conceded that there might be something in this, and his junior went on, ‘It’d just give the thing a new feel. Show that I’m not just into cosmetic tinkering, show I mean business. You see, I’m convinced that a lot of major changes are going to be needed in this Department.’
Graham realised that he was looking full at the speaker and that Robert, with an expression of irony, was holding his eye. Graham also realised that the last sentence had been delivered specifically for his benefit.
He was going to have to do something about Robert Benham.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Detective-Inspector Laker looked again at the letter. It was typewritten and had arrived through the post that morning, addressed simply (and incorrectly) to ‘Murder Department’.
A crank letter would normally have been dealt with further down the hierarchy. It was only because of the very specific nature of the accusation that it had teen referred to him.
The message was short.
THERE ARE CONSTANT COMPLAINTS ABOUT THE NUMBER OF UNSOLVED MURDERS, AND THAT DOESN’T DO MUCH FOR THE POLICE IMAGE. IF YOU WANT TO IMPROVE THE STATISTICS, YOU COULD DO WORSE THAN ASK GRAHAM MARSHALL OF 173, BOILEAU AVENUE ABOUT THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE, MERRILY.
Needless to say, there was no signature.
Detective-Inspector Laker looked at the paper hard. He didn’t handle it. In the unlikely event of investigation being required, the less new prints the better.
From the criminal point of view, he didn’t take it very seriously. The shock of death, he knew, produced
