Acknowledgments

by Martin Edwards

  I must express, therefore, my gratitude along with my sincere apologies to the coroner and his officers, as well as such members of the emergency services as are tasked with clearing up the mess that they find. Sienna and Dean are due here at any moment, for what I have perhaps disingenuously characterised as a “heart to heart”.

  I am fully prepared, with two rifles and enough ammunition to destroy a small army, let alone three people. I have no qualms, given that, as Dean says, we’re all in it together.

  The doorbell is ringing.

  Before I go, I must conclude by expressing my utmost indebtedness to Tom’s poacher friends, for supplying me with the wherewithal to bring this narrative to a suitable conclusion. For obvious reasons, I am unable to satisfy the curiosity of those undertaking the enquiry into our deaths to name them.

  But they know who they are.

  Are You Sitting Comfortably?

  Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

  Fair enough, Bernice, I admit it. I am a murderer. But don’t gloat too soon. By the time you read this, I’ll be out of your reach.

  You know, I can picture you in your favourite armchair. Just about to settle down to a hard evening’s viewing, weren’t you, when you padded out of the kitchen, cocoa cup in hand, and saw the envelope pushed under the door? The envelope containing these few typed sheets. You’re a creature of habit – the telly will still be on in the background, I’m sure of that – but keep reading, it’s important.

  I’m sorry about Stanley, truly I am. Poor, fussy Stanley. He wasn’t a bad man. For an estate agent, anyway. Though I never understood why he was the apple of your eye. Were you jealous of me? I don’t think so – I think you simply resented having a common daughter-in-law who’d been smart enough to marry the boss. Be honest, from day one you tried to turn him against me. All because I wore short skirts and wasn’t much of a typist.

  Why didn’t you accept Stanley had committed suicide? Everyone else did. Okay, the note he left didn’t explain why he couldn’t go on, but it was in his handwriting, spidery as ever. No wonder I had trouble with my typing. The coroner certainly sympathised with me. And had a good look at my legs into the bargain.

  But you simply wouldn’t let it alone, wouldn’t accept that one afternoon your precious son had put a noose round his neck and kicked away the chair. And in a terraced house on the wrong side of town, too. Yet people like Stanley, professional men, have to cope with all kinds of pressures. The coroner told me so the night after the inquest.

  I might have taken my share of the blame, might have tried to explain things to you, but you wouldn’t have understood. No chance of consolation, only hysterical rage. So I kept quiet, never dreaming you’d start sniffing round and accuse me of murder.

  The sergeant warned you I could prove I was down in London the day Stanley died. I said I’d been to the Ideal Home Exhibition and that ticket collector from Euston remembered my legs. The sergeant told me what you said to that – we were at a wine bar. He mimicked you saying, “Ideal Home? Ideal Home? She’s a slut, you oaf. Can’t tell one end of a dustpan from another.” But the sergeant agreed with me that dusting isn’t the most important thing for a young girl to master.

  And I am still young. That’s what makes this whole mess so sad. Such a waste.

  Sorry, I didn’t mean to be maudlin. I’ve always looked for the good things in life. Though for me everything always seems to boil down to men and to money. Mostly men. Stanley was where the money came in.

  When the police showed you the door, you might have got the message. But no – you had to hire a private detective. Does it surprise you that I know about him? He trailed me to the sauna one day and we got chatting. Later on he told me your theory. Quite ingenious, he thought.

  You were so sure I wanted rid of Stanley. I suppose you thought I had my eye on his stamp collection. And to be free for one of my fancy men, as you call them. (Though there wasn’t much fancy about the coroner or the sergeant, I can tell you that. I’m just too friendly for my own good sometimes.)

  I expect you got the idea from a thriller on the box. They ought to be more careful about the stuff they put out. You reckoned I’d got my lover to set up a rendezvous with Stanley, posing as a prospective purchaser while I was out of harm’s way. Once in the house, the rest was easy. The scene was set for Stanley’s last hang-up.

  You wanted the detective to watch me until I led him to lover boy. Nice idea. Only problem is, there was never anyone special for me.

  All right, I did lie about the Ideal Home Exhibition. As a matter of fact, I went to work instead. For the last two years I’ve had a part-time job in a big hotel in London. How can I describe it without being crude? Making money from my hobby, let’s say. Think of it like Stanley selling some of his stamps.

  No regrets. We are what we are. Well, maybe one regret. That I got caught. But who by, I wonder? The South African gentleman with funny ideas? The bloke who quoted poetry at the most unexpected moment? The man from Militant Tendency, the barrister who liked it with his wig on?

  Only joking. I really don’t know. As I explained to Stanley when he realised what his symptoms meant. I hadn’t even had the test then myself. But he was panic-stricken, couldn’t believe what had happened to him. I tried reassurance. It can take years before the worst happens.

  But look what he did the moment my back was turned. His suicide shook me, though at first I tried to carry on as before. Bad luck on the coroner and the sergeant, but men in their position ought to know better.

  Your private detective’s rather different. He’s crazy about me, he’ll do anything I ask. If only we’d met years ago. Trouble is, I’ve not been feeling good lately. My doctor’s been frank – though he’s worried sick, since I helped him through a rough patch eighteen months back.

  So I’ve decided to go out in style. This very evening. In the London hotel, it seems appropriate. At seven-thirty they’ll find me dangling from a chandelier in the conference room. Out of reach, like I said.

  Let’s see. It must be eight by now. I bet you’re feeling smug, knowing I’ve paid my price. But wait. Can you hear a tap on the door?

  Good.

  The tapping’s getting louder, isn’t it? Don’t fret, he’ll stop in a minute. He’s got a copy of one of your keys, as a matter of fact.

  Sit down. Don’t waste your time with the telephone, he saw to that ten minutes ago when he slipped the envelope under the door.

  Have you guessed? It’s your private detective, come back to visit. Like me, I’m afraid he’s nothing left to lose. And your idea of how I had Stanley killed was too good to waste. Last time we spoke, my detective still hadn’t decided upon the ligature. A cord perhaps – or a length of chicken wire. What do you think it will be? Hear the door opening? His footsteps as he moves toward your living room? No? Try turning the volume on the TV down.

  And, by the way, are you still sitting comfortably?

  Neighbours

  9 July

  This is better than sex.

  As a matter of fact, it’s much better than sex.

  I’m beginning to think it may even be better than watching television. And that’s saying something, as far as I’m concerned. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’m getting choosy. I need something extra, not the same old thing, time after time.

  I’m faithful to my favourites, of course I am. Coronation Street, East Enders, Brookside and Emmerdale. I don’t mind the Australian soaps, either. But lately I’ve had just as much pleasure from the real-life shows. You know, the inside story on life within a hotel, a shopping centre, a driving school. Seeing people who actually exist going about their everyday lives. Fly-on-the-wall programmes, they call them, or even docu-soaps. Utterly fascinating, I simply can’t tear my eyes away from the screen.

  Yet now, it may be – it just may be – that I’ve stumbled across something that tops the lot.

  10 July

  They were at it again last night. Talk about hammer and
tongs.

  He started it. I feel sorry for him, married to her ladyship, but I must admit that he has a dreadful temper. Perhaps it’s the forces background – though what happened to military discipline, I ask myself? He’s a big man, powerful and the way his voice carries, you’d imagine he was still on the parade ground. At least Philip was gentle. A bit of a bore, maybe, but a gentle bore. Never any violence from him.

  Anyway. He’d not been home five minutes when he began to shout at her. I didn’t catch the start of it – I’d been on the phone to mum, chatting about the new Coronation Street video – but it was all to do with money. Her ladyship’s a spender. I see her sometimes, sailing off to the Trafford Centre, plastic cards at the ready. Watching from my front window, I sometimes think that she wears a new outfit every time I see her. Usually with a skirt that barely covers her bottom.

  He was ranting about a bill they hadn’t paid. She said it was only the gas; they wouldn’t be cut off, not with two small children to look after. (Though looking after the poor mites doesn’t exactly seem to be top of her list of priorities at the moment.) Then she complained that he wasn’t earning much from his job. He works at the leisure centre on the other side of the M60. After she said that, things turned nasty. He said something about the money they owe and then he called her a greedy bitch. She said something about him that was so disgusting I won’t even write it down. I was appalled. I wasn’t even trying to listen, but the walls in these flats are as thin as tissue paper. When the people next door carry on like that, you simply have no choice but to hear what they are saying. It’s terrible, really, that I have to put up with it in my own home. So much for environmental health. What do we pay our council tax for, I wonder?

  He went berserk. There’s no other word for it. I could hear a thud: he’d obviously socked her one. I could picture the scene just as vividly as if it were on my television screen. Of course, hitting people is wrong, but to my mind she’d asked for it. When she’d got her breath back, she screamed at him, hurled abuse. He slammed the door and went out. Peeping from behind the curtains at the back, I saw him heading for the shed in his garden. He was in there for a few minutes, then he unlocked the gate that gives on to the alleyway behind the flats and disappeared. Probably off to the pub, to drink the evening away. He seems to treat the Pig and Whistle as his second home these days. It’s a mistake. If he knew what I knew, he’d be sticking close to home. Keeping an eye on things.

  Afterwards, I watched East Enders and later on, even better, there was the new docu-soap. It’s called Library and it’s all about the characters who work in this big municipal library up in the North East. They’re a lively bunch, much more fun than the crowd I work with. There’s a big fat jolly woman who was panicking about an author event she’d organised, and my guess is there’s something going on between the girl in the reference section and the publishers’ sales rep, the one with the cheeky smile. Tomorrow night, a second series of Loss Adjusters begins: the one with the chap who says that his job is to persuade a client who’s lost a leg that he’s better off hopping. He’s a scream. Until I started watching, I’d no idea how interesting that line of work could be. It just shows: you learn so much from television.

  11 July

  The library closed at lunchtime today, so I was home by a quarter past one. Although it’s not a long walk from where I work to the flats, I rushed along as fast as my legs could carry me. The delivery man had promised to call on her this afternoon.

  It reminds me of an episode in Brookside. A floosy was misbehaving with some chap and her husband came home early one day when they weren’t expecting him and he caught them at it. It was a good story, that one. Real human drama. And it proves a point I’ve often made, especially to Philip when he’d moan that I was always glued to the box. Soaps are just like everyday life. That’s why I love them.

  His van wasn’t anywhere to be seen when I got home. I must admit that I felt disappointed. Cheated, almost, as if he’d personally stood me up. I could hear her next door, pacing up and down. I could tell she was on edge. I made myself a sandwich and a cup of Ovaltine and wondered if he was about to give her the heave-ho. I wouldn’t have put it past him. He’s not a bad-looking chap if you like that sort of thing, but my guess is that he’ll run at the first sign of trouble. She doesn’t see that, of course. She thinks he’s going to take her away from the flat and her husband. But she has two young kiddies at infant and junior school and it’s a pound to a penny that lover-boy won’t give up his freedom.

  At two o’clock, he finally arrived. I heard the van pulling up outside and ran into the living room to have a peek through the window. He looked flustered, not the same as the first time he called here.

  I remember that day so well. He was delivering a parcel and he rang my doorbell rather than hers by mistake. I got a good look at him as I pointed out where she lived. He’s young, no more than twenty one, at a guess. Five years younger than her – easily.

  The flats are in a small two-storey block. One side of this road is lined with them. She and I both live on the ground floor, which is why we have the little gardens at the rear. Our front doors are inches apart. From a distance, though, you might think the place was a pair of semis rather than four flats. When Philip and I split up and I was looking for somewhere of my own, I thought this was the ideal solution. Modern, compact, no need to waste too much time on vacuum cleaning. No stairs to bother with, for a start. What I didn’t realise was how shoddily constructed the whole building is.

  She chatted him up on the step. My window was open and I could hear every word. Brazen is putting it mildly. She said the parcel was something she was expecting from a mail order catalogue. (She buys a lot of things from catalogues, that’s where so much of the money goes.) He asked her to sign for it and while she was writing he told her that he’d had a tough day. He said he’d just started working for this big company with a depot on the outskirts of Warrington and he kept losing his way on the motorway network. Maybe he was just making conversation, more than likely he was looking down the front of that football shirt she likes to wear. A Manchester United replica, it’s supposed to be. I gather those things cost a fortune these days. Waste of money, if you ask me.

  Anyway, inside a couple of minutes she was telling him that she’d been saving up to buy a new silk nightie. She actually said that to a perfect stranger.

  Well, one thing led to another. I couldn’t believe my ears. Talk about a couple of fast workers. In the end, I couldn’t listen to any more. There’s only so much that a decent person can take. But I must admit that when he called again a couple of days later, I opened my back bedroom window. Hers was open, too. It’s amazing how indiscreet some people are. They have no shame.

  It was different this afternoon. I heard him mumble something about running behind schedule and that he couldn’t stay long. I wasn’t listening to every word – of course, I’m interested. But it’s none of my business. I’m not a nosey parker. I like to keep myself to myself.

  She told him that her old man had hit her. Lover boy sounded nervous. He said she shouldn’t put up with it, asked why she didn’t call the police or a lawyer, force him to move out. It wasn’t what she was hoping to hear, I could tell that right away. She’d wanted him to say that she could move in with him – I can read her like a book. Perhaps she’s starting to get worried. She’s not a complete fool – it must have dawned on her that he likes the bachelor life. He doesn’t want to be caught. I heard her saying something about commitment. He didn’t answer. Any idiot could put two and two together, I said to myself.

  He went so quiet that I told myself he was having second thoughts. It served her right and yet the funny thing is, I felt so disappointed. Let down, almost. It was as if I didn’t want to be deprived of the opportunity to look forward to what might happen next. Almost as if the powers-that-be had decreed that Coronation Street had run its course.

  She snapped at him. I didn’t catch exactly what she said, but t
he meaning was plain enough. She was telling him to make his mind up. Big mistake. I could have told her myself – men aren’t to be relied on. It’s a fact. Human nature, call it what you like. It gave him his excuse and within a couple of minutes, he was on his way. Revving up the van as if he never expected to return.

  It reminded me of Philip, after he’d told me to choose between him and the telly. I didn’t say anything for a while, but I think he came to his own conclusions. His face was as red as a beetroot as he rushed out of the living room. Well, it wasn’t my fault. He did ask.

  12 July

  This afternoon, her ladyship and I had words. It began as something and nothing, really, she was upset because I’d shoved her wheelie-bin out of the way when I was late setting off for work in the morning. It was blocking my path and when the bin men didn’t empty it, she hit the roof. She made some very hurtful remarks. Extremely personal. Needless to say, her language was choice. I think they used to talk about fishwives swearing. Believe me, her ladyship would make the average fishwife sound like Barbara Cartland.

  I could have retaliated, told her that she was as common as muck, that I knew precisely what dirty tricks she got up to with her delivery man. But I held my tongue.

  All the same, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, brooding over what she said until this evening. Then I was able to take my mind off things. Two soaps, Children’s Hospital and a new series about vets. Bliss. Thank Heaven for the wonders of technology, and in particular the video recorder. And yet – I realise now that even the best soaps aren’t quite as good as the real thing.

  13 July

  Lover boy came round this afternoon while her husband was at Old Trafford, watching the match. It was kiss and make up time. He’s like a moth to the flame, he simply can’t resist her. He doesn’t seem to see that it can never work. They aren’t meant for each other. I could have told him. It’s an old, old story. I’ve seen it played out in a hundred half-hour episodes.