Death of a Salesperson

by Robert Barnard

  ‘Care for a drink?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘Meet you outside at six.’

  Settled into the Jug and Bottle, just off the Tottenham Court Road, and after a tenner had passed between them, the waiter told Geoffrey all he knew.

  ‘Somehow I always had the suspicion they weren’t married. I saw him sign the register when they first stayed the night here, and he didn’t do it confident-like. What ho! I thought. Your name isn’t Michael Rogers. Since then I’ve noticed he always pays cash, never cheque or credit card.’

  ‘But they register as husband and wife?’

  ‘ ’Course they do. What do you think? Mind you, it is a bit out of the usual run of liaisons. Because when you look close you realize she is older than him. Glamorous, very smart, altogether the superior article, but older. I put her down as a lady from the provinces—and I do mean a lady, and a well-heeled one—’aving a fling in London. Though it’s more than that, too. You can see she is in love.’

  The waiter, drinking deep, did not see Geoffrey flinch.

  ‘Do they come to the Durward every week?’

  ‘Oh yes, they have been doing. ’Cept in the holidays. I put it down to one or other of them having kiddies home from boarding-school.’

  ‘So they come every Thursday?’

  ‘That’s right. Not last week, but it’s probably half term or something. Yes, they come down and have tea in the Garden Room, same as you just done.’

  ‘What do they do in the evenings?’

  ‘Sometimes they have dinner at the Durward, and a dance afterwards. But Thursday nights is not very lively. Mostly they go out. Taxi called from the desk, then off to the Savoy or wherever. She in long dress, hair done, beautifully made-up. My God, she can look a stunner! I don’t wonder he was taken.’

  ‘You said that she’s in love. Is he?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. Not a doubt of it. At least until recently . . .’

  ‘There has been a change?’

  ‘Well, there has and there hasn’t. On the surface everything has been the same. But they’ve got more serious. Had long conversations in low voices over the tea-table. Once I could see she was distressed—though being a lady, she was always the same to me if I came up to see if there was anything they wanted . . . He wasn’t upset in quite that way, and I put the change down to him trying to wind up the affair—in the nicest possible way. Say what you like, that’s what usually happens when the woman’s the older one. Mind you, thinking back on it, he could have been telling her that his wife was suspicious, and they’d have to go careful for a bit.’

  No, Geoffrey thought; he’d used her, and was giving her the brush-off. He was conceiving an intense dislike for this Roger Michaels, who worked for ICI and had this great store of jokes. What he felt—he told himself with the bleak honesty of someone whose emotional voltage was low—was not jealousy. Or not primarily jealousy. It was indignation on Helen’s behalf. He saw her now as someone who had for years modified her personality to suit the grey, even life which her marriage had offered her, but who had had that other, more daring self waiting to spring out. And when it had done, she had been used by a thoughtless or heartless man, and then thrown aside.

  ‘I feel guilty about this,’ said the waiter, standing up and patting his back pocket, ‘but a tenner’s a tenner. I don’t know what the lady who’s paying you is like, but my pair are nice people. And she is a beautiful woman.’

  I never knew I was married to a beautiful woman, thought Geoffrey sadly.

  Next morning the great weight of failure, of lack of understanding, seemed as crushing as ever. Before breakfast he drove to his school. It was like a ghost school, though later, he knew, one of the secretaries would be coming in. He took the L to R volume of the London Telephone Directory from the office and drove home. He spoke to nobody. Still less, now, did he wish to have a heart-to-heart with anyone about his loss.

  Michaels, fortunately, was not a common name. With the data he had on him Geoffrey could make a guess at the sort of area he might live in, and from the handful who had the initial R he struck gold with his second call. It was to the R. Michaels who lived in Grafton Avenue, Surbiton.

  ‘Could I speak to Mr Michaels, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid my husband is away at his job from Mondays to Fridays. Can I help?’

  It was a hard, tight little voice, quite neutral in accent.

  ‘Perhaps you can. I’m with the Economist, and we’re doing a survey of British toy manufacturers—’

  ‘Oh, my husband got out of that long ago. Nearly two years. He saw the way the wind was blowing. He’s got a very good job with ICI now.’

  ‘Thank you. That tells me what I want to know. I shan’t need to trouble you again.’

  On an impulse, when he had put the phone down, he looked up the number for ICI and got on to the personnel department.

  ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Michaels isn’t here at the moment,’ a cool, competent voice told him. ‘His main work is with our businesses in the North. He drives up there on Monday mornings, and he only comes in here on Fridays, though I believe he drives down on Thursday afternoon.’

  When he had put the phone down, Geoffrey began wondering about Roger Michaels’s arrangements with Helen. Did they meet somewhere, then go on to the Durward together? That seemed likely. Had he been expecting to meet her last Thursday, and would he be waiting again today? Or had he, as the waiter conjectured, broken it off—disguising it, perhaps, as a temporary break while his wife was suspicious, but in brutal reality ditching her?

  By now he had made up his mind: at some time in the future he was going to have to have a talk with Roger Michaels.

  But first he wanted to suss out the lie of the land, sniff out the character of his everyday life. He found Grafton Avenue easily in his London A-Z. There was nothing to prevent him driving there at once. Half term had still some days to run, and doubtless any problems that came up were referred to the Deputy Head. When he got to Surbiton he found that at least here parking was no problem. There didn’t seem to be much else to be said for the place. He put the car in the next street and walked casually along Grafton Avenue. The Michaels’s house was not very different from what he had expected: a standard detached house, probably built in the ’fifties, with a tiny, neat front garden, and no character whatsoever. The same was true of all the houses in the street: suburbia personified. The only relief from the architectural monotony was a small square of public garden on the opposite corner of the avenue. Geoffrey walked in it for a bit, his eye on Roger’s house, but there was no sign of life.

  Was Roger a pub man, he wondered? Yes, it did sound as if Roger was probably a pub man. Men with streams of jokes usually were. Two streets away Geoffrey could see the outlines of a ’thirties roadhouse, brewery-anonymous in style. Could that be Roger Michaels’s local? It seemed worth a try.

  It was still a good half-hour before the lunch-time rush, and the landlord was ready for a leisurely gossip.

  Thinking of moving round here, was he? Well, he always did say you couldn’t find a nicer area. Lovely houses—well, he would have seen that. Nice people too, if it came to that—a very good class, if Geoffrey knew what he meant. What line of business was Geoffrey in himself? Schoolmastering? Headmaster! Well, he could practically guarantee he would fit in perfectly. Did he have any connections in this area?

  ‘Oh no,’ said Geoffrey airily. ‘Not really. Though I’ve just remembered I do know a chap who lives around here somewhere. Man called Roger Michaels.’

  ‘Roger! One of the best. He’s one of our regulars—well, not regular, because these days he’s up North from Monday to Friday. But he’ll be in on Friday or Saturday, and he and his wife come in at Sunday lunch-time without fail. Come in about half past twelve, have a couple, then leave about half past one, when the roast is done.’

  ‘Great chap, Roger,’ said Geoffrey, with painfully assumed heartiness.

  ‘Lovely man. Really funny. I�
��d say he was a real wit. He gets a little circle round him when he comes in here, and he has them splitting their sides.’

  ‘Bit of a lad too, I believe,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘Oh, we wouldn’t know about that round here,’ said the landlord with professional caution. ‘While he’s home his wife keeps him on a very tight leash. Between you and me—’ he leant forward over the bar, and hushed his voice—‘she has the reputation of being a bit of a b.i.t.c.h. . . . Mind you, if he has his fling now and then, I’m not altogether surprised.’

  ‘No?’

  The landlord lowered his voice again.

  ‘Couple round here had their Silver Wedding. Went to the Savoy for a bit of a splash. They saw Roger there with a woman—a real corker, so they said. ’Course, it could have been his sister . . .’ The landlord smirked. ‘Nothing was said. Just one or two dirty snickers. The fact is, his lady wife’s not greatly liked. And you can say what you want about Roger, he’s a man people take to.’

  Then the bar began to fill up.

  Geoffrey went back to the roadhouse on Sunday at lunch-time. The bar was full this time, and he was served by a barmaid. He stationed himself by the window. From here he could not see the Michaels’s house, but he could see the end of Grafton Avenue. Most of the couples who came for a drink drove, but surely the Michaelses would not. At about half past midday he saw a couple walking from Grafton Avenue. They were apparently affectionate, but there was something forced about it, even from a distance. He walked like a man with something on his mind. She took his hand in hers, but that only increased the sense of strain. As they approached the pub Geoffrey downed his drink and escaped out the back. In the car he found he was drenched with sweat.

  That, certainly, had not been the time or the place for an encounter. He had to get Michaels on his own, in some place where neither of them was known. But how could that be arranged?

  On Sunday night Geoffrey rang his Deputy Head. He found he just couldn’t face school in the morning, he said. He’d intended coming in, but somehow the thought of school assembly, with all the children looking at him, was more than he could bear. He might slip in inconspicuously later in the day, or he’d be there without fail on Tuesday. His Deputy was very sympathetic, and said she quite understood.

  It was very dark when Geoffrey left the house on Monday morning—still night, in fact. Roger Michaels’s time of departure for the North could be anything from six onwards. In fact Geoffrey was in position in the little patch of public garden by five past. He had left his car just round the corner from Grafton Avenue. At about twenty past a light came on in the landing of No. 26, and soon there seemed to be lights on in the back of the house downstairs. What was he doing? Making himself coffee, or making himself breakfast? Geoffrey hoped it was the former. When he had thought about their encounter he had envisaged it taking place in some motorway cafeteria where Roger had stopped for breakfast. Daylight broke over Surbiton. He must have made himself something to eat. But even so he would stop for a cup of coffee, surely, at some stage in his journey?

  It was just after seven when the front door opened. Geoffrey saw Michaels’s back as he closed the door, then a side view as he walked to the garage. Middle height, little moustache, firm walk. Geoffrey fingered his car keys as he heard the garage doors opened. Then another wait. What was the man doing? Finally a car started and began backing out.

  The rush of blood to Geoffrey’s head was so blinding he had to lean against a tree. It was a silver-blue Honda. There it stood, in the middle of the road, as Roger got out to close the garage doors. A silver-blue Honda. He had killed her. Deliberately run her down. The coincidence was too glaring to believe otherwise. Suddenly decisive, Geoffrey ran to his car, started it, and when the Honda had driven past, silently put it into gear and followed at a safe distance.

  All the way, through suburb after dreary suburb and towards the Ml, Geoffrey was thinking. He had tried to throw her over, and she had not taken it lying down. She had got troublesome. She had threatened to go to his wife. He could not imagine Helen being troublesome, but then the whole of Helen’s other life was something he could only conceive of by imagining a quite different sort of woman. She was a woman of forty, hopelessly in love with a younger man. A desperate woman will adopt desperate means. He on the other hand had simply been having a fling on the side. His marriage was important to him. Why? Did the wife have money?

  Helen had been driven down between town and home, on a stretch of highway where a spurt of speed was possible. She had been giving her cookery class as usual—something she always did on a Tuesday night. Anyone could have known this, but it was something Michaels would doubtless have known very well. He must have driven down from the North, parked there, waited for her to pass, then driven into her at speed and driven on. Geoffrey felt that great, choking well of anger in him, still as strong as when he had seen the car.

  At last they got to the motorway. Roger was not a fast lane man, Geoffrey was relieved to find. He kept on the inside, driving carefully. Was he naturally a fast lane man, but one with something on his mind? On and on they went, towards the Midlands, towards the North. He was not going to stop! Geoffrey felt a growing surge of frustration, pushing his anger to boiling point. He was not going to stop! Where was he going to be able to confront him? Tell him face to face that he knew what he had done?

  They were nearing a flyover. On an impulse he accelerated. He drew level with the Honda and stayed level. Roger was driving steadily, carefully. A flicker crossed his face. He had realized that the car beside him in the next lane had been there too long. He turned his head, and saw Geoffrey’s face looking directly at him. Geoffrey saw his jaw drop. Michaels had recognized him. So Helen had shown him pictures. His jaw was working. He seemed about to say something. Then all of a sudden his car was out of control, swerving to the left, off the road, through the flyover’s safety barrier and down to the ground or road beneath. Geoffrey’s last view had been of a face crazed with terror.

  He drove on till he came to a lay-by. He sat for some minutes with his head in his hands. He had done nothing. His car had not touched the Honda. And yet—what had been his motive in driving up beside him, staying beside him in the second lane? To get a good look? Or with the subconscious desire that something like this would happen?

  At any rate, some kind of justice had been done. Ten minutes later, almost cool again, Geoffrey drove to the next junction, then turned and headed South. There were police and AA men on the flyover, and down below he could hear the shriek of an ambulance.

  Geoffrey drove to Surbiton on the next Saturday, to buy a local paper. There was a brief notice of the accident, with the news that it had involved no other deaths, though a passenger was injured in a car on the road below which had been slightly grazed by the falling Honda. Geoffrey was relieved it was not worse. He went back to Surbiton the next Saturday, and the one after that, but it was not till the third Saturday that he found a report of the inquest.

  The Coroner, before accepting a verdict of accidental death, set out the facts admirably. The dead man was still young, was happily married, and had quite recently embarked on a promising career with a first-rate company. Unfortunately his job necessitated a great deal of travelling. There was no evidence that Mr Michaels had been drinking, either on the morning, or the night before. Nor was there any evidence that his judgment could have been impaired for any other reason—for example drugs. The relevant facts were that Mr Michaels had not had a great deal of sleep the night before, and had begun his long journey early in the morning. It was clear that the accident had been caused by a momentary lapse in concentration.

  The Coroner also noted the fact that in her evidence Roger Michaels’s widow had suggested that a contributory factor in the accident was the fact that her husband was driving a car to which he was not accustomed. His company Volvo was in the garage for an extensive refit, and he had been forced to take her car.

  A BUSINESS PARTNERSHIP

&nbs
p; Everyone said they made a marvellous threesome, because somehow they balanced each other. The Chatterways were so smart and healthy and glamorous: they always looked tanned, obviously had some kind of home gym, and dressed with an unostentatious rightness. Put like that it might suggest they were priggish or inhuman, but in fact they were anything but that. They were enormous fun to be with, and so pleasant on the eye that an invitation from them—and they entertained a lot—was something to be cherished, looked forward to expectantly.

  Paul, on the other hand, was shambling: untidy, even unkempt, with flecks of paint on his clothes and hands, and a layer of nicotine on his teeth. He sometimes drank too much, and certainly never went to a tailor’s. Paul nicely dispelled any idea people might have had that the Chatterways were too perfect.

  Of course technically there was no reason to consider them a threesome at all. Paul had the flat in David and Imogen’s house—Meadowbanks, their large, modern house of Scandinavian inspiration, where the light in the flat lifted Paul’s painter’s heart. He had been at school with David, and now painted precise, painterly landscapes of a conservative kind which sold well, yet somehow belied his public personality. David was head of a furniture business that specialized in modern pieces, all quality wood and clean lines.

  Yet it was not surprising that they were regarded as a threesome, or that people, when they invited the Chatterways to dinner, always added: ‘You’ll bring Paul along too, won’t you?’ For Paul usually did come (necessitating unexpected invitations to divorcées or widows who thought they had in their solitude been entirely dropped by their former friends), and he was always to be seen in their company: if they went shopping in Leamington Spa he would go with them, and they’d meet up for lunch. At concerts and fêtes they would usually arrive together, and they were often to be seen on drives around the countryside on Sundays, when David and Imogen might sit reading, while Paul made sketches. If you were invited to the Chatterways you would expect Paul to be there, but if you dropped in unexpectedly during the evening you would probably find him there then too—sprawled in the long, uncluttered sitting-room, smoking his old pipe. You could say that Paul earthed the Chatterways.