by Roy Lewis
He came across some of Shirley’s tapes — and others he recognised. He’d brought them over, the night after the coroner had delivered himself of that appalling speech in court. There was one tape he particularly liked . . . something he had once taped himself from a radio programme. It wasn’t there. Never mind — this unmarked one would do — it would indeed, he thought. It was an orchestrated version of some light music. Jeannette must have taped it at some time. The soft music swelled out and he turned the volume down slightly, then poured himself a drink.
He dropped to the settee, with the drink in his hand. He let his mind wash free of thought. The music swirled around him. Ten minutes later Shirley came in. He rose and poured her a drink, without speaking. When she took it from him he looked at her. Her eyes were bright and as they stood close together she seemed to have difficulty with her breathing. Her lips were slightly parted and he realised that after all—
‘Shirley—’ he began, reaching out to hold her.
And the music stopped, and someone was laughing.
It was Jeannette.
* * *
‘Play it again,’ said Peter harshly.
‘Peter—’
‘Play it again!’
Shirley stared at him for a long moment, then with a shrug she went across to the tape-recorder. Her face was pale. There was the sound of whirring tape, back-tracking. Then the soft music stole through the room again. Shirley looked back to him, appealingly. He ignored her. He was waiting.
In a moment there came the click . . . and the sound of Jeannette’s laughter. With a masochistic fascination Peter listened.
‘. . . you don’t mind me turning this thing off. It’s something I taped from that ghastly Tea at Three programme this afternoon, and I was just playing it again when I heard you at the door. There, I’ll just put it on rewind . . . Now then, Stephen, can I get you a drink?’
Stephen Sainsby’s quiet clipped tones came across faintly.
‘That would be very pleasant, Jeannette. I . . . I gather Peter isn’t at home?’
‘I’m afraid not, Stephen. He’s still at the office — he must have something, or someone on tap there, it seems to me. He told me he’d be particularly late tonight. You wanted to see him, specially?’
‘Well, yes, but it’s nothing that can’t wait. If I may say so,’ Stephen added slowly, ‘I’d much rather see you, anyway.’
The way Jeannette laughed made Peter flinch. It was not the fact that she laughed; it was the quality of her laughter. It had a provocative meaning that was painfully obvious.
‘Well really, Stephen, that was most gallant of you. In a moment I’ll be suspecting that you came round here knowing damn well that Peter wouldn’t be home this evening!’
‘You know very well, my dear, that this wouldn’t be too far from the truth.’
‘Now why on earth should you do that?’ Jeannette was asking sweetly.
‘You bitch!’
Stephen Sainsby’s tone was admiring.
‘After the way you behaved last week, Jeannette, you can still put on an act for me? You made it perfectly obvious that—’
‘That what, Stephen?’
There was a huskiness in her voice now, a huskiness that was familiar to Peter. It had always attracted him, it always told him that her sexuality was aroused. He knew now that it had never been anything but an affectation, something she could turn on at will. Agonised, he listened. There was a rustling sound . . .
‘Peter!’ Shirley came forward to him, with her hand outstretched anxiously. ‘Please turn it off.’
‘No,’ he said harshly, pulling her down beside him on the settee. Jeannette was speaking again, breathlessly.
‘Really, Stephen, if Peter should return now—’
Stephen Sainsby’s reply was urgent.
‘He won’t return, not yet a while, but Jeannette, for God’s sake, can’t we do something about this? Last week, and now tonight, you’re damned well tormenting me. If I don’t have you—’
‘Yes?’ Caressingly.
‘Can’t we fix something up? I have to get up to London soon. Can’t we . . . ?’
‘I’ve already spent rather a long time in London, Stephen, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I can get a flat,’ Sainsby was saying eagerly. ‘If you can get away for a couple of weeks—’
‘Only a couple of weeks?’
‘Well, as long as you like, Jeannette. Longer the better. Leave him, if you like, I’ll look after you. I’ll—’
‘You’ll what, darling?’
‘You tantalising witch—’
The sounds were unmistakable. Peter felt sick. He realised that he was gripping Shirley’s hand fiercely. Her face was white.
He was aware then only of odd sounds. Through a haze of whirling memories and mingled disgust Peter heard her arranging to meet Stephen, heard her urge him to leave then before her husband returned, heard her whispered good-bye.
And her final contemptuous remark after Sainsby had gone.
‘Would you have guessed the old stallion had it in him?’
After that, there was only the whispering sound of the whirring tape.
Shirley rose quietly and walked across to switch off the machine. The room was silent. Pale evening sunshine drifted through dancing dust specks. ‘Peter—’
He began to laugh. Quietly at first, then more loudly. It had a cynical ring.
‘D’you know,’ he sputtered, ‘Stephen Sainsby was talking to me, only last Friday. He was turning over to me a sad little man who’d been sleeping around and who was terrified that his wife would find out. You know what my senior partner said? He said that there are things one can and cannot do. That a man should live a decent life. That it takes little to behave in a responsible manner. He said that. To me!’
‘Peter, I’m sorry — what can I say?’
‘And you should have seen the look on his face. Disgusted, outraged morality! And all the time—’
Shirley dropped to her knees beside him, and took his hand. She was near to tears. ‘Peter, please . . . I think you should forget it.’
‘Forget it? How the hell can I forget it? Don’t you realise, Shirley, how it was with me and Jeannette? I loved her. She was expensive, but I loved her and I worked like a bloody slave for her. More than that — I threw over my professional standards for her. Don’t you realise why I was so worried about the Amalgamated Industries thing? Because I knew all along I was sticking my neck out — but I’d gone too far to back out. But I needed money; I needed to make money — for her! That’s why I closed my eyes to my own professional reputation and contacted Paul Jackson. Sure, I kept telling myself that what I was doing was for the good of the trust, but all the time the main reason was that I wanted money. For her!’
His lips writhed back in a terrible grimace. ‘By God, this’ll put paid to his Knighthood!’
Shirley’s hands fastened on his.
‘Peter,’ she urged, ‘you — you’re not going to make it public?’
He stared at her. Anger was washing away from his veins now. He felt suddenly helpless, and defeated. One by one the layers of his defences were being stripped away. First Jeannette had left him, then her return had lost Shirley for him. Jeannette had never been his thereafter, but her death had yet left him with memories of the way it had been, once upon a time. Now he knew that there had never been a time. Now he knew just what Jeannette had been.
Make it public? For what purpose? To tell everyone he had been cuckolded? Lavender would certainly hush up his affair with Jeannette; and Sainsby’s lurking Knighthood would crush any thought of confession from the senior partner. And what would Peter have to gain? There was no point in making it public.
Everything had changed, and nothing had changed. Jeannette was dead. He had thought Lavender could have killed her. By the same criterion it could equally have been Stephen Sainsby. And who else? Who else?
For all he knew half the men in the two counties could have
been Jeannette Marlin’s lovers. She’d been nothing but a whore.
Shirley was staring at him; in her eyes there was a real distress, and he remembered what had been in her eyes the moment before Jeannette’s laugh had torn across their emotions. It was all too late, now.
‘It looks as though we won’t be going out now,’ he said quietly.
‘If you say so,’ she replied sadly.
‘It’s no good, Shirley. You see that, don’t you?’
‘If you say so.’
He was strangely reluctant to leave, but felt he had to. He went across to his briefcase, and extracted the lease and its counterpart. His voice was measured and flat.
‘You’ll execute these two documents and so will Mrs Taylor, or her son, or whoever it is. There are instructions attached. You’ll hand the lease over to her; you’ll keep the counterpart.’ He closed his briefcase. ‘If you have any problems, John will deal with them.’
Shirley was looking at him strangely.
‘Is this goodbye, Peter?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, Shirley, I just can’t think straight. Not now. I hope — I hope I’ll see you again, before you leave.’
‘Or before you do.’ Her tone was cool. She was in control of herself now.
At the door he paused and smiled weakly at her.
‘Wish me luck, for the Gaines slaughter tomorrow?’
‘I wish you luck, Peter, all the luck you need.’
And I’ll need it, he thought. Previously, he could at least have argued, because there had been reason for acting as he had done. Now, there was nothing. Just the realisation that it had all been for nothing — for that was what Jeannette had been. Nothing.
The telephone was ringing.
‘One moment, Peter, don’t go. I’ll just see who it is.’
Shirley stepped back into the hallway to pick up the telephone receiver. A moment later she called out to him.
‘Peter! It’s for you.’
She was standing there with her hand over the mouthpiece.
‘It’s John Sainsby,’ she said. ‘He — he sounds strange.’
‘He’ll have received my letter,’ commented Peter, ‘about the Gaines transactions.’
He took the telephone from Shirley.
‘Hallo, John? This is Peter. You got my letter?’
There was a brief silence. John Sainsby seemed to be having difficulty controlling his breathing. When the words came they were uncharacteristic.
‘Marlin,’ he gasped. ‘You cynical, hypocritical bastard!’
And the line went dead.
CHAPTER 6
Inspector Crow remained silent for a long time as he sat behind his desk, staring at the letter which John Sainsby had presented to him. He flicked over the last sheet again. His eyes fixed on the signature. Peter . . . a broad, confident hand. Crow returned to the first page and gazed at it, stolidly.
John Sainsby shifted nervously in his seat.
There was a line of perspiration along his neat moustache and his hands were damp. The constable at his back, and the inspector facing him, obviously unnerved him completely.
Inspector Crow looked up from the letter. ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘I see what you mean.’
He sounded sad, yet resigned.
Sainsby flickered a dry tongue along his lips.
‘Has — has Mr Gaines been . . . in touch with you?’
His eyes were feverish. Inspector Crow placed Marlin’s letter on the table, carefully, and shook his head.
‘Not yet, Mr Sainsby. Though I’ve no doubt that he will. Now . . . can you inform me where I am likely to get hold of Mr Marlin this morning?’
Sainsby looked down at his damp hands. ‘He will be at Greygables by now,’ he muttered. ‘The trustees’ meeting. I was to have attended, but when I got this letter I decided I should come straight to you.’
‘Yes, I understand, Mr Sainsby. All right. Well, I think that the best thing for you to do would be to go home for the time being. There’s no doubt that I will want to see you again shortly, but you’re obviously more than a little upset. Leave the papers with me and I’ll go out and . . . have a word with Mr Marlin at once.’
‘I think I’d rather return to the office,’ whispered Sainsby in a strained voice.
‘Just as long as you let us know where we can get in touch with you,’ soothed Inspector Crow. ‘Wilson, show Mr Sainsby out now. And then ask Jardine if he has managed to get those files I asked about, will you? Goodbye for the present, Mr Sainsby.’
Crow leaned back in his chair, as the door closed behind Sainsby. His physical discomfort in a chair that was too short for his long back was matched only by the mental depression that had overcome him. It really was too bad: he had misjudged people in the past, and he would do so again. But if this letter was right, he had made a great mistake about Peter Marlin.
And yet . . . there were too many yets, and too many buts. It had been an uncomfortable investigation. It had begun badly — the local police work had been sloppy, people hadn’t been questioned closely enough, statements accepted almost at face value, and then there’d been Lavender and the pressure from Gray; the intrusion of his private emotions upon what should be routine matters; the silly little difficulties that the local force had put in his way; it all added up to a situation that made it almost impossible to act with the directness he liked to use. What was it they said back at headquarters — ‘as the Crow flies’? It was the way he liked to work and he didn’t mind the crack. But this depressing office . . . he was sad.
But then, when was he happy? Martha always said he seemed to the outside world to be the unhappiest man alive. She knew better, but being married to him for twenty years she should be able to take up a position that allowed her to understand him. He was certainly happy when he was with her. She was forty now, and dumpy. He knew they made an odd physical contrast. People often smiled, sometimes laughed when they saw them together. But what did it matter? They had twenty years of a happy marriage behind them: they could afford to laugh at others.
Some others had unhappy marriages. Like Peter Marlin.
His head jerked up at the smart rapping on the door. It was Jardine, officious as ever. ‘The records you requested, sir. Couple of photographs, too.’
‘Good, thank you Jardine. I’ll return them later, once I’ve had a good look at them.’
Once Jardine had withdrawn, Inspector Crow drew the folder towards him and glanced at the two photographs. They had been taken at the hospital. He pored over them for a long time before he turned to the reports.
It was the last few sentences of the report that particularly drew his attention. ‘The abrasions were certainly the result of the initial impact. It is my considered opinion, however, that the other injuries were inflicted later. It would seem that these injuries were caused after the man had lost consciousness. They were the result of deliberate blows, which the unconscious man was unable to avoid.’
Crow stared at the photographs again. He felt cold. It couldn’t be proved, obviously, but there was the doctor’s opinion. Beaten, deliberately, after he was unconscious.
Anger stirred in Crow’s veins. It was time to see Peter Marlin.
* * *
Mrs Gaines was proud of her drawing-room. William had spent a great deal of money on it years ago, and it had repaid the investment. Its panelled walls had now toned down magnificently to a dull, reserved sheen that set off the splendour of the oaken table to perfection. The high French window glanced down to a lawn and stream that sent light reflections dancing on the ceiling in high summer. The green carpet had not faded noticeably over the years although, she supposed, if one looked under the bookcases that stationed themselves in military fashion against the wall one might discover a deeper tone there.
It was a room to savour, and she enjoyed the sensation now as she sat there. It was her moment, for soon the others would come in, to deal with this tiresome business of the trust. It was sad,
but she feared that bitter words would fly: she did not like bitterness, not now, not at her time of life. She had taken her fill of that particular cup and wanted no more, but she knew that Sam had for some reason come to regard the dispute with Peter Marlin as a personal vendetta. Perhaps he was right. Even so, she suspected otherwise, for Peter Marlin was a capable young man, and an able solicitor, and her son, well, he was her son, but he had yet to show the determination that she knew both she and William had possessed, the sense of right, and the control of personal feelings that was so necessary if one was to make one’s way in the world, and keep its respect.
William had earned respect, and, she thought, so had she. Sam was young. Perhaps he would learn, soon.
She hoped that this meeting wouldn’t develop into a brawl.
She could hear their voices in the hall and she adjusted the high neck of her grey dress. They came in then, James Byrne leading the way, broad, thickening at his red jowls, peering over his glasses and smiling at her. She had known him for many years. He had once been an able accountant but of recent years he had given up the chase somewhat. Next, Peter Marlin. She hadn’t realised before that his dark hair was beginning to fleck with grey. His father, she remembered, had looked far too distinguished for a farm labourer. He had been a handsome man too, more striking than Peter, she seemed to recall, but that would be because Peter’s mother had had softer, more malleable features. But Peter had certainly taken his father’s bold, upright stance and walk . . . it was strange how the years could roll back before her.
Then Sam. How could she be objective about him? She tried so hard to be objective, but it was difficult . . . he was her only son. His fair hair was straighter now than it had been when he was a child, and his narrow features were obviously coarser. But he retained a little of the grace of movement that had been his when he had been at her knee and if he had been — and still was somewhat petulant, that must be a fault of hers. William had never displayed petulance.