For the next couple of days Graham Marshall kept a low profile. At work he was quiet, confident that this behaviour would be interpreted as a sign of bereavement. He avoided conflict with Robert Benham and, on the couple of occasions it threatened, bowed subserviently to the other’s will.
At home he conducted a few minor experiments, but most of the time just watched television, eating take- away meals. Now he had a definite offer on the house, he felt no urgency to keep it tidy.
He realised he had made one mistake, when Charmian rang him on Thursday evening. From her tone, she clearly thought he should have rung earlier in the week to enquire after Henry and Emma. Graham gave her some line about being in a bad state and not wanting his grief to rub off on the children, though he knew Charmian’s piercing understanding of him would not accept that. He spoke to Henry and Emma, who sounded like children of a distant acquaintance he had not seen since they were babies. Their manner was polite, distant, but relatively cheerful. Then he spoke to Charmian again and arranged that she should come on the Saturday morning to collect the bulk of their remaining possessions.
He knew why he had made this mistake, and promised himself to be more careful in future. The trouble was that the children no longer played any part in his thoughts. He had written them out of his life as completely as he had Merrily in the weeks before her death. But reality again lagged behind the speed of his imagination. Henry and Emma still existed, and he must go through the motions of still being their father. The separation should not be a sharp break, but a gentle tapering-off of contact. It was a bore, but it was something that he must do. His behaviour must appear what is conventionally known as ‘normal’. Any apparent callousness should be avoided. This was not to save the children suffering, but simply to allay suspicion. The world had certain expectations of him, and so long as he followed the observances of ‘normality’, the world would leave him to his own devices.
Thinking this, he decided he should also demonstrate an appearance of solicitude to his mother-in-law. He didn’t fancy ringing her, partly because their conversation was likely to be vituperative, but, more importantly, because no one would know about the gesture. A call to the doctor would be a less acrimonious exchange, and would also register on a kind of objective Brownie points tally.
Lilian was now under the family G.P., rather than the hospital doctor, and Graham got through just as the young man was closing his evening’s surgery. Oh yes, of course, Mrs. Hinchcliffe. The doctor’s tired mind homed in on her case amongst all the other hundreds he had dealt with that day. Yes he could understand Mr. Marshall’s anxiety. Well, as far as he knew, she was making a good recovery. He would check with the social worker, yes. And how about Mr. Marshall himself? Was he feeling any better? Sleeping all right? Was he managing to grieve?
In a properly subdued voice, Graham assured the doctor that his skills at grief were improving.
On the Friday, mid-morning, he went to see George Brewer. Stella looked up as he entered the outer office and, seeing who it was, rose hesitantly, perhaps in expectation of a kiss.
Graham put his fingers to his lips in a gesture of complicity. Yes, of course, I still feel the same, but keep it quiet at the office, eh?
Stella smiled and nodded.
‘Still all right for tomorrow, though?’
She nodded again.
‘Is the old man in?’
The shift of conversation to office matters freed her from dumb show. ‘Yes.’
‘Anyone with him?’
‘No. Rarely is these days. Surrounded by back-slapping management at all these cocktail parties, and left strictly on his own in the Department.’
Graham smiled, went to his boss’s door, knocked once and entered.
George Brewer looked up guiltily. He had been playing with the suspended Newton’s Balls on his desk. This ‘executive toy’ had been presented to him by his colleagues on his appointment as Head of Personnel. A jocular card had accompanied it, with the message, ‘This’ll give you something to do when you’ve got nothing to do.’ Now those words were all too relevant.
‘Oh, Graham.’ George’s hands flew to pick a circular out of his in-tray. His expression was that of a schoolboy caught masturbating. The slight sheen of sweat that now seemed a permanent feature shone on his forehead. His jacket was slung over the back of his chair and the armpits of his shirt, too, were darkened with sweat. The room held a stale whiff of anxiety.
Graham noticed the discarded jacket with satisfaction. ‘Morning, George. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know. .’
‘Got another of your executive piss-ups today?’
‘No. . no. . nothing today.’ The words seemed to have a wider application than a mere answer to Graham’s question. Then, eagerly, the old man added, ‘Don’t know whether you fancy a drink at lunchtime. .?’
‘Sorry. Got to go out and do some shopping.’
‘Ah.’ George Brewer crumpled again.
‘Actually, there’s something I want to check with you. .’
George looked surprised. It was rarely that anyone wanted to check anything with him these days.
‘Yes, Robert asked me to do a report on the union negotiations. You know, this tedious business about Travelling Allowances for Office Services staff off Central Premises.’
‘Oh yes.’ The old man still looked bewildered.
‘I’ve been sitting in on the meetings and Robert just wanted me to do an update. You know, current state of play. .’
‘Uhuh.’
‘Well, it’s finished, but I thought you should cast your eye over it before I pass it on to Robert.’
‘Oh. Oh.’ The second ‘Oh’ was extremely gratified. It was a long time since George had been consulted on something like this. Over recent years Graham had done more and more of the routine work on his own and, since the announcement of Robert Benham’s appointment, all important documentation bypassed George’s office completely.
In fact, Graham’s report was not important. It was the kind of thing that, in more confident days, George would have dismissed with any airy ‘God, I don’t need to look at
But in his current reduced state, he seized eagerly on any opportunity to maintain the illusion that he was still needed.
He leant over the document. Graham picked up a pencil and moved round behind his boss’s chair, close enough to feel the sting of cigarette smoke in his eyes. Graham pointed with the pencil at a particular paragraph. ‘It’s this bit, really. We haven’t actually had the agreement ratified, but I think we’re safe to take it as read, don’t you?’
‘Well, I … let’s just have a look at it.’ Given the responsibility, George was going to make sure he read every word. He leaned closer over the document.
Graham slipped his hand into the inside pocket of the jacket hanging over the chair. He withdrew George Brewer’s wallet and transferred it into his own jacket pocket.
It was a risk, but he reckoned the risk was small. Besides, he was beginning to enjoy the tease of danger. Moments like his confrontation with Detective-Inspector Laker had been frightening, but the relief afterwards was wonderful. Danger gave him a feeling of extra professionalism. If he could keep his cool under that kind of provocation, he was obviously getting good. He was completely in control, just sailing rather close to the wind.
As this image came to his mind, he thought of Robert Benham and smiled.
He needn’t have taken George Brewer’s wallet. He wasn’t worried about the theft ever being attributed to him, but it did raise the minimal danger of a connection being made between Benham’s death and Crasoco. In some ways, Graham knew he might have done better to steal an anonymous wallet.
But that carried as many dangers, if not more.
First, there was the problem of the theft. He had no skill as a pickpocket and to get caught in the act would be shameful. Again, he couldn’t guarantee the contents of an anonymous wallet. Nor could he easily return it after use, so the theft was almost bound to be reported.
Most important of all, he couldn’t forge an unknown signature without hours of practice. Whereas George Brewer’s he could do in his sleep.
Graham Marshall took the Tube to Marble Arch, which he reckoned was far enough away for anonymity. It
