circumstances have changed.’ He was mildly surprised at the fluency with which such lines came out.
‘Yes. I’ve never lost anyone very close to me. Both my parents are still alive. It must be terrible.’ She spoke this automatically, assessing, wondering what his next move was going to be.
‘I mean. . you,’ he said, fully aware of the impact of his words.
‘Me?’
‘Well, you know you and I. . when we went to the wine bar those times, before. . before. .’
She helped him out of his apparent embarrassment at mentioning Merrily’s death. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Well, I enjoyed it.’
‘Me too.’
‘And now suddenly it’s all different. I mean Merrily’s dead and one part of me is reacting to that, and yet at the same time another part is saying I’d like to go on seeing Stella, but there’s this sort of feeling that I shouldn’t.’
‘Because of what people might say, people in the company?’
‘I suppose that’s part of it. All of it, maybe.’
‘Well then, if we do meet, we should do it somewhere where nobody in the company’ll see us.’
‘Yes, that’s right, we should. How do you feel about going out to dinner somewhere tomorrow night?’
Predictably, she felt pretty keen about it.
He had rung earlier in the day for an appointment with his doctor and went along after work. The doctor was an earnest young man Graham had met perhaps twice when collecting prescriptions or getting forms signed. Merrily had had all the other dealings with him. She and Lilian regarded a doctor as someone central to their lives, someone with whom they had a relationship; for Graham he represented merely a convenient service, on a par with an emergency plumber or a minicab firm.
‘I’m so sorry about. . what happened,’ said the doctor with a gravity beyond his years. ‘A tragedy. Such a lively woman, so vital.’
Graham nodded agreement.
‘And then I heard about your mother-in-law. A foolish act which must have put additional stress on you at a time when you are least able to bear it.’
Graham prepared to voice his request, but the doctor had not concluded his monologue. ‘The full effect of bereavement is something we medical practitioners have still got a lot to learn about. There’s research being done, and the most important thing that emerges is the need for grief, a need for the bereaved person to abandon him or herself to grief. And as soon as possible. I do hope that you are grieving for Merrily.’ Graham felt an irrepressible desire to laugh, but when the sound came out, managed to convert it into a sob.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the doctor soothingly, ‘that’s good. You mustn’t have any of these inhibitions about men crying. It’s just as important for a man as a woman. Grief is essential.’
Since the young man seemed prepared to go on about grief indefinitely, Graham stated the reason for his presence. ‘The fact is, doctor, I am having difficulty sleeping.’
‘Well, that’s no surprise, Mr. Marshall — or may I call you Graham? — no surprise at all. Any normal person is bound to be affected by the sort of shock you have just suffered and the effects are most likely to take a physical form. Insomnia I would expect, or a bad back, headaches or — ’
‘Are you saying it’s just psychosomatic?’ asked Graham, sensitive to any aspersions being cast on his imagined complaint.
‘By no means. Anyway, what is psychosomatic, what is real? Increasingly we medical practitioners are having to learn to treat the whole patient, not to separate the body and the mind. Your mind has experienced a terrible shock, and your body is reacting by depriving you of sleep. It is only time, and the full process of grief, that can complete the healing process.’ Since the doctor was in danger of getting on to grief again, Graham cut in. ‘What I’m asking, doctor, is can you prescribe something to make me sleep?’
This the doctor did willingly. Two of the pills, taken half an hour before retiring, should do the trick. If Graham still found himself waking up in the night, he could take one more. Three was the limit, though. The doctor warned him of the dangers of overdose, hesitating slightly as he did so. Presumably, with Lilian’s gesture a recent memory, he was a little worried about planting such an idea in the head of a man unhinged by grief. Graham assured him that there was no danger of that sort, and set off with his prescription, trying to look subdued.
By the time he got home, he no longer felt the need for pretence, and moved jauntily to the front door. Everything was coming together very nicely, he reflected.
He was so cheerfully absorbed in his plans that he did not notice the occupant of the parked Ford Escort opposite, nor the intensity with which the man watched his arrival. Nor did Graham see the man get out of his car and walk slowly across the road to the house.
The doorbell rang.
Graham opened the door and looked at the stranger quizzically.
‘Good evening. My name is Detective-Inspector Laker. I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if we could have a bit of a talk about your wife’s death.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘Can you think of any reason why someone might make this sort of accusation?’ asked the Detective- Inspector.
They were sitting quite cosily in the front room. Graham had furnished each of them with a large Scotch. He had been mildly surprised when the policeman had accepted his offer of a drink; he had expected a ‘no, sir, not while I’m on duty’ demur. But he was glad. He recognised the seriousness of the confrontation and wanted it as informal as possible.
‘No, no, I can’t,’ he replied to the question. ‘It just seems very vicious, at a time like this, turning the knife in a wound that hasn’t begun to heal.’
Once again he was surprised at the way the words came to him. He seemed to have an instinct for the expression of bereavement.
‘Yes, I can see that, Mr. Marshall,’ the Detective-Inspector said soothingly. ‘And I’m sorry that I have to be here to add to your troubles. The accusation in the letter is a very serious one, though.’
‘But totally false. God, I mean, it’s not as if there hasn’t been a police investigation. And an inquest.’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the findings of the inquest, don’t you?’
‘I have read the relevant documents, yes, Mr. Marshall.’
‘Well then.’ Graham delivered this as if it were the Q.E.D., the end of the argument; but he watched Laker’s reaction closely.
The detective was silent, and Graham felt impelled to continue. ‘It’s a ridiculous accusation. And very cruel. I mean, why should I have wanted to kill Merrily? Ours was a very happy marriage.’
‘Was it?’ The emphasis of the question was not loaded; Laker appeared to be asking merely for information.
‘Yes, of course it was. Ask anyone. Ask our friends.’
‘Ah, Mr. Marshall, a marriage is the most private relationship two people can have. A profoundly secret contract. What appears on the surface can be very misleading.’
‘O.K., I accept that, but even say I hated Merrily, why should I go to the trouble of murdering her? You can get a divorce easily enough nowadays. I had no motive to kill her. Come on, what did I possibly stand to gain from her death?’
‘Nothing, except to get your mortgage paid off. Thirty thousand pounds.’
Graham flushed. This was getting too near to the truth. He tried to think of a blustering defence, but words wouldn’t come.
The detective held the pause, then said, ‘I’m sorry. This must be very upsetting for you.’
Graham sank his head into his hands. He wasn’t sure. Was Laker interpreting his reaction as a symptom of outraged bereavement or was the sympathy merely delaying an accusation? He decided to stay silent until the
