HER HUSBAND’S KILLER an unputdownable psychological thriller full of breathtaking twists

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Helen slumped in her chair, hugely relieved. ‘I’ll phone her when I get home,’ she said. Then, to placate Patterson: ‘And then I’ll take your bloody pills and a few hours of oblivion.’

  * * *

  The argument between Nelson and Hackett had continued for some time after Helen had left. What enraged Nelson more than anything was the reason he had given way to the sergeant.

  Hackett had been restless from the moment he had called Dr Wilkinson into the office they had requisitioned from the head of the zoology department. He had become increasingly tense, kept glancing from the woman to Nelson, then he stood up and paced from the window to the desk and back. Mallory’s office was not large; it reminded Nelson of a film set in a black and white B-movie of the nineteen-fifties, cluttered as it was with the kind of artefacts generally used as a visual shorthand for sinister scientific types. An array of rodent skulls of increasing size were lined up along the edge of the shelf opposite the desk, all turned so that the empty eye sockets stared beadily down on the occupant. There were cabinets which seemed to comprise mahogany trays with glass tops. Nelson had taken a glimpse at the top drawer — a carefully pinned out display of different species of a large black beetle; different stages in the life cycle, some with the wing cases splayed open exposing crinkled wings that reminded Nelson incongruously of plastic rain hats his mother used to wear when he was a child. He found the proximity of the shiny black creatures with their hooked legs and huge antennae unnerving. A live tarantula occupied a glass case next to the computer. No doubt it kept Mallory company as he typed up his reports. A human skull sat on the desk — it looked real — with a cigarette clamped between its teeth: evidence of a heavy-handed humour.

  The small, airless room was not made for men of Hackett’s size and bulk; he stirred the air with his pacing, and Nelson flared his nostrils at the mixed odour of chemical preservatives and dust, the warm, new, plastic smell of the computer and an older, mustier smell, of mouldy books and animal decay.

  He had glowered at Hackett, but his sergeant wasn’t paying attention, at least not to him. He had asked a few questions of his own, speaking in that imposing bass voice of his. In the confines of this dusty office, it seemed to boom even when he spoke quietly. After a while he had passed a note across the big, buff ink blotter. Nelson had glanced at the note, not really believing the sergeant would have anything helpful to suggest, but willing to give the new boy a fair chance.

  You have to let her go, it read. Nelson had screwed the slip into a ball and tossed it into the bin. Hackett had then asked to speak with him in private. He had refused. Hackett had insisted. Nelson had stood up, glaring into the sergeant’s pallid face. Strange, how he found those eyes disconcerting. He imagined it was similar to the effect his own amber irises had on people, not realizing that while Hackett’s stare was calm, speculative, his own had a frenetic intensity which was truly frightening. He had warned Hackett that he was interfering in the interrogation of a suspect.

  ‘If she’s a suspect, take her in, and interview her in compliance with PACE regs. She should have an appropriate adult present.’ Hackett added in a whisper, ‘She’s not making sense.’

  Dr Wilkinson had retreated into her private world. She had seemed unaware of the row going on over her head. ‘She’s sick or in shock, or mentally unstable. Surely you can see that?’ The emphasis on the you was almost indiscernible. Nelson wasn’t sure, half an hour later that he hadn’t imagined it. Surely you — you of all people — you who should be an expert in the diagnosis of mental instability. He had folded. Crumpled. Given in without another word. All on a probably imagined implication. And having let her go, he was now furious.

  He had launched himself into a face-saving tirade almost as Helen Wilkinson left, but the sergeant was proving remarkably resilient. If Hackett’s skin appeared practically translucent, appearances were deceptive: the man had the hide of an elephant.

  ‘If you ever interfere with my interviewing a suspect again, I’ll have your lily-white arse out of here. I’ll have you out on the streets knocking on doors and keeping back the sightseers.’ Hackett looked like he was considering the advantages of this proposal. ‘You’re not indispensable, Sergeant. Get that into your thick skull, will you? I won’t be undermined by junior ranks.’

  ‘No, sir.’ But the look on Hackett’s face said he’d do it again. And again. Those bloody eyes! They reminded Nelson of a ginger tom his wife had taken in as a stray. He had booted it off the settee once when he’d caught it licking its backside and dropping fur and spreading God-alone-knew-what diseases all over the place. He never caught it after that one time, but there were always ginger hairs on the Dralon and the sodding cat would be staring down at him from the top of the bookcase, tail twitching, out of reach, out of danger. He was tempted to tell Hackett to piss off back to Warrington or wherever he’d come from. Then he’d seek out a nice, tractable DC, preferably female, who wouldn’t mind making the odd brew and typing up his notes for him. But reality asserted itself: they hadn’t made ’em that way since the seventies. Nelson grunted in disgust.

  ‘We need to interview some of these lecturers,’ he said. ‘We’re wasting time here.’ Everyone not directly involved in the heads of department meeting had scattered when Alice Chambers had dismissed them.

  ‘I could have a chat with Prof Wilkinson’s secretary,’ Hackett suggested. ‘She may know the likely bolt-holes. And I could ask her about this reorganization that’s going on.’

  ‘She might also have some background on Wilkinson and his associates,’ said Nelson, conceding to the idea reluctantly. ‘And talking of background — how’s Wright doing with that check on Dr Wilkinson?’

  ‘Nothing on the computer,’ Hackett said, ‘but I’ve suggested they do a paper check as well — their computer records only go back as far as nineteen eighty-eight.’

  * * *

  Mrs Roberts’s office was an ante-room to Professor Wilkinson’s; a plasterboard wall and a door through to the larger room of which it had once formed part. She was a generous woman, both physically and by disposition, and the cramped quarters in which she found herself seemed all the more stingy when measured against the cloth of her unstinting good nature. She was not tall — five feet seven or so, but her iron-grey hair was extravagantly coiffed into a creation which gave her a couple of extra inches, and she had the kind of padding which takes years of maternity to acquire. She was a solid, comfortable, substantial woman whose generosity extended even to Edward Wilkinson, although Hackett had already developed the conviction that the professor was less than deserving of her loyalty.

  ‘The Research Assessment Exercise — RAE,’ Mrs Roberts explained to him in her fruity, rather masculine voice, ‘was completed at the end of the last academic year; the reorganization of departments into an umbrella faculty is a result of the assessment.’

  ‘How does the RAE work?’ Hackett asked.

  ‘Each department sends in a sheet of information for each member of staff, listing the best four papers they’ve submitted for publication over the previous five years. Also, details of grants or other funding they’ve brought in — a very important factor in these lean times, Sergeant.’

  ‘They’re given some kind of grading, I take it?’

  She nodded. ‘By an independent body of specialists, eminent in the relevant field. Each academic is given a rating of one to three — three being the highest and denoting academic work of international importance. The assessors work out an average grade for the department, then compare it across all of the biology departments, so that a ranking may be given, from one to five. Most would feel content with an overall ranking of three.’

  ‘How content were the various departments here?’ Hackett asked.

  Mrs Roberts glanced over his shoulder towards the open door. ‘I’d have to check with the Senate before giving out that sort of information,’ she said. ‘But the result is the proposed merger of several departments and the institution of a
“parent” faculty.’

  ‘Which will mean job losses . . .’

  She raised both shoulders. ‘Inevitable, I’m afraid.’

  Hackett asked her to describe Professor Wilkinson’s elimination procedure. At first he refused, on the grounds of confidentiality. But he persuaded her that it was defunct, as Miss Chambers’s new process had superseded it — something they knew from their latest interviews with staff.

  She outlined the professor’s requirement that staff present a lecture and research proposals to their peers — all of whom would be fighting to keep their jobs.

  ‘I could see that would make him a few enemies,’ Hackett commented. He often found oblique comments far more productive in provoking unguarded responses than direct questions, and Mrs Roberts obliged.

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that any of the staff would have wished him harm, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘No matter what Professor Wilkinson was, I’m sure nobody here could ever do such a thing.’

  Hackett picked up on the term ‘what the professor was’.

  ‘You didn’t approve of his methods?’ he asked, hoping to surprise an honest answer from her. He succeeded only in putting her back on her guard.

  ‘I imagine Professor Wilkinson thought it was the best way. Universities are far more competitive than they used to be.’

  ‘Yes, but from what you say these people have been worrying about job security, grants for research and so on for over a year now; that must have a terrible effect on morale.’

  ‘Certainly, this performance didn’t help.’

  Hackett felt he was back on track now, noting the disapproval in her voice — which this time was not aimed at him.

  ‘They must have been dreadfully upset—’

  ‘Well of course—’

  ‘Angry, even.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be? Asked to justify your job, your funding, your research to members of the fraternity who have a vested interest in depriving you of that position, divesting you of your funding and rubbishing your research? Not because the staff here are mean spirited — they are not, I assure you.’

  She paused for breath, held it a moment, then, as if deciding honesty was the best policy, she resumed. ‘The professor cultivated a climate of interdepartmental competition so fierce that it made even the mildest people desperate.’ She stopped and put a hand over her mouth in a curiously childlike gesture. ‘I did not mean that the way it sounded, Sergeant Hackett,’ she said.

  He smiled and she narrowed her eyes at him, clearly angry with herself that she had allowed him to lead her into an indiscreet response.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Roberts,’ he said. ‘I have to ask these questions.’ He hesitated, then decided he couldn’t descend any lower in her estimation and asked, ‘Was anyone more upset — more desperate — than the rest?’

  Mrs Roberts’s benevolent blue eyes were piercingly cold. ‘I do not eavesdrop on the professor’s conversations,’ she said, letting her tenses slip for the first time.

  ‘I’m not suggesting that you did, but people would have to’ve made appointments with the professor through you. I suppose they would have to wait in here if they wanted to avoid standing around in the corridor. And you seem to me to be the sort of woman people would confide in.’

  ‘If they did — and I am speaking purely hypothetically — I should certainly not be at liberty to discuss such confidences.’

  Hackett sighed. ‘Mrs Roberts, I understand your position, really. You are obviously a woman of integrity. But the fact remains that a man has been murdered — your boss, a respected academic — and we need to know anything, anything at all which might help us find his killer.’

  Mrs Roberts was not a vain woman; she did not respond to his flattery, but he saw doubt flicker over her face and guessed that she was torn between public duty and private allegiance. She fiddled with the notepad on her desk, straightening the coils of the spiral. ‘Isn’t it more likely that Professor Wilkinson disturbed a burglar or something?’ she ventured. ‘One reads of people on drugs, schizophrenics and the like—’ She murmured something about care in the community.

  Hackett was glad Nelson wasn’t around to hear that one. He measured the situation carefully and came to a decision. ‘There were no signs of a break-in, no indication of a struggle.’ He watched Mrs Roberts’s reaction carefully. ‘I’m telling you this because I want you to understand how important it is that you tell me what you know. And I think you know a good deal more than you’ve told me. I think Professor Wilkinson knew his attacker.’

  Mrs Roberts seemed shaken. She didn’t answer immediately but rearranged the writing materials on her desk as though each represented some aspect of what she was about to reveal to him. Hackett waited, suppressing the excitement he always felt when he had hooked an important witness. But Mrs Roberts was not so easily won over.

  ‘They were all upset, Sergeant,’ she said, having organized her thoughts. ‘You have to appreciate that Professor Wilkinson was . . .’ She hesitated, apparently regretting the appearance of disloyalty, but resolving to be perfectly honest, at least in this. ‘Edward was a difficult man. He really rather enjoyed having people at his mercy. If I were to give you a list, I should have to say that fifteen of the twenty people he saw in his office yesterday left in tears or furious — or both.’

  ‘Dr Helen Wilkinson,’ said Hackett, trying a different tack, ‘Did she have to go through the same process as all the rest?’

  Mrs Roberts nodded. ‘But even if he had exempted her, I think she would have insisted on taking part. Helen wouldn’t like anyone to think she had been guaranteed a place next year just because her husband had been appointed to the chair of the new department.’

  ‘That was confirmed, was it? His new status, I mean.’

  She blushed a little. ‘Not officially, but Professor Wilkinson had told me in confidence that it was merely a matter of administrative protocol.’

  ‘Dr Wilkinson is younger than the professor?’ Hackett asked, taking advantage even of this slight imbalance in her equilibrium.

  ‘By ten years.’

  ‘How did they meet?’

  ‘What are you implying?’

  Hackett shrugged. ‘I’m not implying anything. What did you infer?’

  Mrs Roberts raised her eyebrows — the snob in her surprised that a policeman could make the distinction.

  ‘He taught Helen as an undergraduate, but they hadn’t seen each other for years. In fact, he didn’t recognize her at first. I remember the staff gathering at the start of term—’

  ‘So, he had nothing to do with her appointment here?’

  Mrs Roberts threw up her plump hands in a gesture of resignation, then let them fall into her lap. ‘You’re evidently determined to make nepotism an issue here, Sergeant,’ she said.

  He dipped his head. ‘I’m simply exploring possibilities.’

  ‘Well I don’t see what relevance it has to poor Edward’s death.’

  Hackett raised his eyebrows. Poor Edward? What happened to the difficult man who relished the chance to make his subordinates squirm? Was she saying poor Edward because she wanted to say poor Helen, but didn’t want him to think that Wilkinson’s wife had sufficient grievance to murder her husband?

  Mrs Roberts rose to her feet, quivering with rage. ‘Helen has been through a lot, and I am not about to add to her problems,’ she said, apparently reading his thoughts. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment at the Senate offices to discuss my own security of tenure, and I don’t want to be late.’

  Hackett didn’t move immediately. He wasn’t quite sure what had caused this sudden and startling flare of anger. Was it his implication that Wilkinson may have known Helen before she came to the university? If he had, then they would be looking at a relationship between lecturer and student. Very improper. And if the professor had done it once, he could do it again.

  ‘What’s the matter, Sergeant Hackett?’ Mrs Roberts sounded suddenly bitter, too sharp
. ‘Are you wondering whether I had a motive? Well, if it’s of any interest, I’m more likely to be put out to grass now than if Edward had become head of the new faculty.’ She laughed, an unattractive, dry rattle, like windswept winter leaves, and Hackett was further taken aback. ‘Not that he had any special affection for me, but I am used — was used — to his little ways, and the idiosyncrasies of his filing system.’

  ‘You should play that to your advantage,’ said Hackett, matching her bitterness with sarcasm. ‘The new professor will need an interpreter. Someone reliable and sympathetic.’

  She stared at him, brimming with dislike. For a moment her resolve held, then he saw, fleetingly, and with regret, hurt in the crystalline blue of Mrs Roberts’s eyes.

  Chapter 6

  It’s strange how memory works. Ask me to recall an event and my picture of the day is likely to be sketchy; ask me to recall a feeling, and I may be unable to remember even the name of the emotion I might have experienced at a particular time. Emotions are particularly slippery for me — they’re . . . I don’t know — untrustworthy. Love and hatred have always seemed to me to be so closely allied — it’s almost impossible to resolve the two — at least that’s what I’ve found. And memories, like emotions, are so coloured by the mood of the moment. What might have seemed enjoyable, exciting — thrilling perhaps, the day before — becomes tedious, boring, irritatingly dull the next morning when the sheen of newness has gone off it, the exhilaration of noise and laughter no more than an echo in the mind and, let’s be honest, sobriety exerts its influence. Of course, the converse is true — awful events can develop a kind of nostalgic charm given time and if a mellow mood takes me. But once in a while something happens which triggers a flashback that is so close to the real thing it’s like time travel — like being transported back through time to the exact moment and setting it has evoked — except in these semi-hallucinations I am the age I was when it first happened. Whatever ‘it’ happens to be. Maybe only a gang of kids playing tick in the street, their voices rupturing the night air, their shouts making puffs of vapour, like Indian smoke signals, and me in the background, watching, disdainful. The trigger depends on the memory. Sometimes it’s a tune, an old song, 10cc, The Police — one of the old bands; or it may be a particular tone or quality of light. More often it’s a smell. I can never quite get over the evocative power of smells.