And certainly Graham’s agony had no moral cause. Abstract morality played no part in his scheme of things. Abstract thought of any kind was alien to him. If he had stopped to examine his motives — which he never did — he would have found their sole impetus had always been the pursuit of success without social indiscretion. This had led him to a pattern of behaviour which was, from the outside, often indistinguishable from that of a moral person. But its imperatives were always those of expediency; they were not dictated by any system of belief. He believed in nothing except his own ability to recognise the next move required and to make it.
But the events of the day had given that belief a hammering. His failure to get George Brewer’s job had written off his life. The murder, and his subsequent arrest, would just be public recognition of that fact.
Fear of discovery was the only cause of his nervous collapse.
And, even through the paralysis of fear, he felt anger, fury at the injustice that had subjected him to the old man’s provocation. He regarded the murder as his misfortune, but not his fault.
He had to sleep. Alcohol wasn’t going to do the trick. There must be something else in the house. Wasn’t there some draught Merrily had given the children when they were wakeful? The stuff hadn’t been used for years, but it might still be around.
His angry scrabbling in the bathroom cupboard woke Merrily. She appeared again, bleary in the doorway. ‘What are you looking for?’ the little voice asked.
‘That stuff you used to give the kids. I can’t sleep.’
‘Oh, the Phenergan. I chucked it out before we moved.’
‘Damn.’
‘Why can’t you sleep?’
‘I don’t know. Why can’t one sleep?’
‘Are you worried about the job?’
‘Job?’
‘George’s job. Have you heard anything about the board?’
It was absolutely instinctive, but Graham didn’t know why he said no.
He had a triple hangover on the Friday morning — first, from the alcohol; second, from the loss of George’s job; and, third, from the knowledge of the murder.
He couldn’t eat any breakfast; Merrily and the children seemed more alien than ever; so he mumbled something about having to be in early, and left at about quarter to eight.
He was almost on Hammersmith Bridge before he thought about the route he was taking. A panic seized him. He felt he should run away and hide. There would be a little crowd of policemen in the middle of the bridge, questioning the passers-by, waiting for him. His step faltered.
But logic stopped his flight. His only chance lay in behaving normally, doing exactly as he had always done, exactly as he had done before he was a murderer.
He dared to look ahead. There were no policemen on the bridge; only the usual trail of pedestrian commuters moving faster than the solid mass of cars on their way into London.
With a great effort, he didn’t break step when he reached the scene of the crime. He flashed a look at the damp pavement, fearing bloodstains.
There was nothing.
The parapet too looked unmarked.
As he walked along he looked down at the Thames beneath. The tide was high, its level increased by the recent rains. The dull water flowed on strongly, its surface broken only by slow-turning driftwood and high-riding plastic containers.
For the first time, Graham Marshall almost believed the murder hadn’t happened.
Any serenity he experienced was short-lived. As he approached the office, again he faltered, convinced that there would be a policeman waiting inside for him. And again he managed to damp the panic down. His only hope was to behave naturally. The day before no one had thought of him as a murderer; he must act exactly as he had the day before.
Inside the building the commissionaire gave the usual respectful greeting as Graham flashed his identity card. George Brewer’s Stella was getting in the lift. It was early yet; just the two of them travelled up to the fifth floor.
‘I’m very sorry about the job,’ said Stella.
‘Oh. Thank you.’ To his amazement, his voice sounded normal. Or if it was a little thicker than usual, that could be put down to disappointment about the job. To people who didn’t know about the murder, there would always be an alternative explanation.
‘I was flabbergasted,’ she went on. ‘I’m not sure whether I’ll enjoy working with young Mr. Benham.’
He looked at her. He’d always rather fancied her in a resigned way, though never really contemplated being unfaithful to Merrily.
And now. . For a man who had committed murder and was shortly to be arrested, for someone like that even to fancy a woman was ridiculous.
On the other hand. . To his surprise, the thought came into his mind that any other transgression was meaninglessly trivial compared to the crime of taking human life.
‘I didn’t realise,’ he said, ‘that you went with the job.’
‘Oh yes. The desk, the chair, the fitted carpet, rubber plant, and me.’
‘Oh dear. That makes not getting it all the more disappointing.’
She smiled at him.
He smiled back. But he wasn’t really smiling at her; he was smiling at the incongruity of anyone framing pretty compliments only ten hours after murdering an old man.
There was no policeman waiting for him in his office, but Robert Benham was there, poring over some files on his desk.
The Head of Personnel Designate looked up without apology. ‘I’ve been in for an hour or so checking through some stuff.’
‘Ah.’
‘That report you did for George on Human Resources, you know, staffing in the ’Eighties. .’
‘Oh yes.’
‘His copy’s locked in his files, so I’m checking yours.’
‘Fine.’
‘Disagree with your conclusion that the size of Department’s right. There are a lot of idle buggers who don’t pull their weight.’
‘I know that, Robert, but George was very keen to maintain the Department at its present size.’
‘So you came up with the conclusions he wanted?’
Graham shrugged. Robert Benham nodded brusquely and closed the file. ‘Of course. As I’ve said, I’m more concerned with productivity than maintaining the
‘Yes.’
‘We must have a long talk about it. No time in ordinary office hours. You come down to my cottage at Stoughton one weekend. It’s near Chichester. We’ll fix a date.’
‘Oh, but I — ’
‘But what?’
But what indeed? Graham didn’t continue the sentence he’d been framing about Merrily and the children and trying to keep the weekends free as far as possible. He couldn’t pretend he enjoyed Saturdays and Sundays
‘Nothing. No, I’ll look forward to that. Any weekend’ll be fine.’
At that moment George Brewer’s harassed face appeared around the door. ‘Oh, er, Robert, I was looking for you. I. . er — ’
‘I’ll be along in a moment.’ Robert Benham gestured his boss away without finesse, almost snapping his fingers at him. George’s head withdrew.
When Robert had gone, Graham had another attack of the shakes. They hadn’t found the body yet; it had been swept along by the river.
