At Dead of Night

by Tony Whelpton

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Oh, it’s only a little thing. If Roy’s car really had collided with a bollard, the car would bear some marks, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it would.’

  ‘But the policemen didn’t have a look at the car to see if it was marked, did they? And yet they went to all sorts of lengths to get him to admit that he had collided with a bollard!’

  ‘You’re assuming that all policemen are as intelligent as you are! And, as I found out when I phoned the police station last Saturday morning, there are some policemen who are a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic! And in any case, an author isn’t obliged to put every minute detail into his story. As you say, the author is God!’

  Chapter Three

  The following Monday morning, David got up very early with a view to starting work on creating his next story, his wife Margaret being still in bed. At 7.30 he took a cup of tea up to her, and then went on to complete another half-hour’s work before going to get dressed, after which they had breakfast together.

  ‘You got up very early this morning,’ said Margaret. ‘That doesn’t happen very often these days!’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ replied David. ‘I was often in the habit of getting up early to work when I was a bit younger, but I seem to need more sleep these days! But for some reason this morning I woke up at about five o’clock and then something in my brain started thinking about my book, and after that I couldn’t get back to sleep again, so I eventually decided to get up and use whatever useful ideas popped into my head.’

  ‘And did any?’

  ‘One or two….’

  ‘Were they good ones?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. But probably the most significant thing is that I decided in particular that in the different scenarios I invented I didn’t necessarily have to maintain consistency from one story to the next.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I mean is, that it doesn’t always have to be someone who sounded like the man’s daughter that was making the call. It could be somebody who had a similar speaking voice to the man’s wife, girlfriend, ex-wife, or whoever. In fact I went as far as thinking that the voice of the caller doesn’t even have to sound like that of somebody the man knew anyway. And then although the original call to me came to our landline, it could just as easily have been on my mobile…’

  ‘Frankly, all that doesn’t sound particularly significant to me. Does it really matter?’

  ‘Not a lot, no, only insofar as it would make things a lot more difficult for me if I had to maintain exactly the same situation from one scenario to another. In fact it probably wouldn’t matter to the reader at all, but to the writer it would! Because, of course, the really important thing is that the message has to be identical each time. You see, when I had the original call, it was the nature of the message that started to get under my skin, it didn’t have anything to do with the fact that it was on our landline, or even because I had been under the impression that the call came from Susan…’

  ‘I see… so do you think you have made much progress?’

  ‘Well, yes, I think I have, because I’ve done a lot of thinking about the whole situation this morning, and there are a few ideas buzzing around my head which weren’t there last night. So, although I haven’t actually put a lot of words down on paper this morning, I’m at least in a position to make a start!’

  ‘Jolly good! So when do you expect to finish the next instalment?’

  ‘In theory I should have finished it by Friday. But there’s a lot of work to do between today and then!’

  ‘Well, you’d better get on with it then. Off you go!’

  So David went off to his study, and then on Friday afternoon he handed the next instalment to Margaret, and this is the story she read:

  Michael Davenport lived with his wife Janice in Bromley, Kent, in a neighbourhood which was effectively a suburb of London, even though it was nominally in the county of Kent. Nobody could have claimed that their marriage was a happy one. In fact the prospects had been at best uncertain in the first place, because they had both been married unhappily before, but each of them had believed that this time they would be able to make a go of it. Almost immediately after their wedding, however, the squabbles started: fairly trivial and insignificant to begin with, but in time progressively more serious, until, after a couple of years of bickering, it became obvious to everybody, and to each of them, that the marriage was doomed, and they both stopped trying, without actually having a proper conversation about it, which is probably the real reason that the marriage was so unsuccessful: each of them was content to leave the outcome to chance, without putting any genuine effort into it themselves.

  The problem had started, in Michael’s opinion anyway, because their three children did not hit it off at all, especially the two girls. None of the children was actually the result of their union: when they married, Michael’s daughter Angela was fifteen, almost the same age as Janice’s daughter Jane, and a year younger than Jane’s elder brother Graham. The way Michael viewed the situation was this: Jane, who had initially been enthusiastic about her mother marrying Michael, and who had appeared to be on good terms with Angela at that time, had begun to resent her stepsister, criticising her stepfather for always tending to favour his own daughter. She also began to accuse her brother Graham of making up to Angela, although he, a fairly equable young man, was by nature the sort of boy who tried to get on with everybody. Janice’s view, however, was almost the opposite of Michael’s: according to her, it was Angela who was being unkind to Jane, and who, from the very beginning, had resented any show of affection between her father and her stepmother into the bargain. The irony of this situation was that if Angela and Jane had been just friends, they would in all probability have been the best of mates.

  It would, of course, have been better if such misunderstandings – if misunderstandings they genuinely were – had been identified and sorted out before the wedding, but at that stage Michael and Janice only had thoughts for each other, with the children being left to cope with their new situation as best they might, and neither husband nor wife appeared to notice the early signs of imminent disaster, and when eventually they did become aware of their children’s deeply felt resentment, they both made the fatal mistake of taking sides. Within two years, however, both Michael and Janice were involved in extra-marital affairs, a situation which was facilitated by the fact that Michael often had to be away on business. He was area manager for a big company manufacturing washing machines and other ‘white goods’, and frequently had to confer with and assess the work of his team of local agents; to begin with, Janice felt that he arranged to be away from home rather more than was strictly necessary, but, once she had established her own liaison, she ceased to complain about his absences, because the fact that he was often away made it easier for her to do as she liked.

  It soon became apparent, however, that Michael was totally incapable of making an illicit relationship last any longer than a marriage, and, after three or four affairs which each failed within two or three months, he settled for a series of one-night stands, mostly involving young women who worked for the same company, and of whom he was at least nominally in charge. Many of them appeared to believe that it would be a good career move to make up to their regional boss; the fact that most of them were married women did not seem to matter a great deal, either to him, or, in his own mind at least, to them.

  On one occasion Michael was due to visit the Lake District, which involved a much longer drive than usual, so he booked into a little hotel just outside Keswick; the next day he was due to spend the morning with the local rep, a young woman named Tracey Bannister, whom he had not met before. Tracey also had a relatively long drive, because she lived in Southport, not too far from Liverpool, and the only civilised way she could arrive in Keswick by nine in the morning was by travelling the day before and staying overnight. Michael had helpfully suggested that it would be more
convenient if they stayed at the same hotel, and that if they had dinner together, they would be able to get to know each other more quickly, and make the most of the time they would be spending together – for the ultimate benefit of the company, of course…

  Michael arrived at the hotel at about five o’clock in the afternoon; he went straight up to his room, unpacked his overnight bag, had a shower and a shave, and generally made himself more presentable. A few minutes later his mobile rang: it was Tracey letting him know that she too had just arrived at the hotel, and that she was in a room on the second floor.

  ‘I’m on the first floor,’ Michael declared. ‘because I always like to be within easy reach of the bar. Do you want to come down to my room, or shall I come up to yours? I’ve been looking forward to meeting you face to face!’

  ‘Shall we just meet in the bar? Say in fifteen minutes?’ she replied guardedly.

  If Tracey had been able see Michael’s face she would have noticed immediately that disappointment was written all over it. But he was a man who believed his charms were irresistible, so he reluctantly accepted a short delay. ‘Okay,’ he replied, ‘in fifteen minutes I shall be in the bar.’

  A little less than fifteen minutes later Michael left his room and made his way to the bar, but when he arrived he found there was no woman sitting on her own – in fact there were no women in the room at all. He chose a table at a reasonable distance from the bar and an equal distance from the door, so that he would be able to see his employee as soon as she made an appearance; from that position he would also have time to assess his tactics as she crossed the room. Immediately a waiter appeared at his table, so he ordered a bottle of Prosecco and two glasses.

  ‘Shall I wait until the lady joins you?’ asked the waiter.

  ‘No,’ said Michael, ‘I’m dying for a drink! I’ll have it straight away.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the waiter obediently, and in a couple of minutes he returned with a bucket of ice in which the bottle had already been placed, and two empty flutes; at once he poured a glass for Michael, then withdrew, whereupon Michael immediately started drinking.

  It was fully five minutes before Tracey made her appearance. When she did, she looked around the bar, and seeing there was only one man sitting alone, she made her way towards Michael’s table; as he had planned, he had ample time to inspect her before she arrived in front of him. She was in her early thirties, had shortish blonde hair, blue eyes, and was wearing a deep blue trouser suit and a white sweater which showed off her figure to advantage. ‘Oh yes,’ Michael thought, ‘I like the look of that. It might be my lucky night!’

  ‘Are you Mr Davenport?’ she asked as she approached his table.

  ‘Michael, please!’ he pleaded. ‘We’re off duty now, we can let our hair down a bit! Come and sit down, Tracey…’

  As he spoke he pulled out a chair for her, choosing the one nearest to his seat, but, without saying anything, she pulled out a chair for herself – on the opposite side of the table from Michael, and sat there. ‘Oh, champagne!’ she exclaimed, ‘I love champagne!’ Despite her enthusiastic words, she was in fact feeling a little disappointed, for it had not escaped her notice that the bottle contained Prosecco, not genuine champagne, which would have cost him – or, more accurately, the company – about four times as much; she was equally conscious of the difference in quality, as well as the attitude it implied.

  ‘Only the best is good enough for my staff!’ he announced pompously as he poured out a glass for her, whilst she simply offered him a smile by way of thanks. ‘I always think of my team as being my family. So welcome to my family!’

  ‘Your family?’ she questioned, listening properly for the first time, and rather surprised by the expression.

  ‘Yes… I mean welcome to the team!’ he said, raising his glass, ‘I hope you’ll be very happy working for the company. If there’s anything you need, please feel free to ask.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Davenport,’ she replied, raising her glass in turn, and taking a couple of sips from it before replacing it on the table.

  ‘Call me Michael,’ Michael reminded her. ‘And tell me about yourself.’

  ‘Oh, there’s not much to tell,’ Tracey replied. ‘I live in Southport, I’ve only just joined the company, and before that I was working for a bank.’

  ‘How long were you working for the bank?’

  ‘Almost exactly two years.’

  ‘And why did you leave the bank?’

  ‘I found it boring sitting there at the counter day in, day out. And when I saw the advert for this job, I thought I’d rather like travelling to different places.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Just coming up to three years.’

  ‘What does your husband do?’

  ‘He’s in the army.’

  ‘Does that mean he’s away a lot?’

  ‘Sometimes. He’s in Iraq at the moment.’

  ‘How long has he been away?’

  ‘Eighteen months so far.’

  On hearing this, Michael felt encouraged, assuming immediately that the fact that her husband was serving abroad must mean that she was pining for male company, especially since, in addition, they had been separated for half of the duration of their marriage. ‘That must be lonely for you,’ he commented. ‘And Southport’s not exactly the liveliest place I’ve ever visited.’

  ‘Oh, do you know it then?’

  ‘Not very well, no, but I have played golf at the Royal Birkdale a couple of times. Do you play golf?’

  ‘No, not at all. Was it Mark Twain who described golf as a perfect way of ruining a good walk?’

  ‘I haven’t heard that before, so I don’t know who said it. But whoever he was, I don’t think he was right. I find golf gives me a lot of pleasure and plenty of exercise too.’

  A slightly awkward pause followed, which Michael filled by topping up Tracey’s glass and then emptying the remains of the bottle into his own glass, for he had already drunk a glass and a half himself before Tracey’s arrival. ‘Waiter!’ he called, ‘another bottle of this, please!’

  ‘Steady on! You’ll get me tipsy!’ Tracey said.

  ‘And what if I did?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sure a lovely girl like you must have been tipsy now and again!’

  ‘I might have done!’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘I can’t remember. But excuse me, I need to go to the Ladies’ Room.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be right here.’

  So Tracey made her way out of the bar, returning two or three minutes later. But when she returned to the table where Michael was sitting, she noticed that, instead of four chairs, there were now only two at the table, of which one was occupied by Michael, with the remaining one having been placed much closer to Michael than it had been before.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, ‘somebody’s moved the chairs!’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael in a matter-of-fact way. ‘The bar’s been filling up, and the waiter came and asked if we really needed four chairs. Naturally I said no, and so he took the two that were nearest him. You don’t mind, do you? I mean, we don’t really need four chairs, do we?’

  ‘Oh no, of course not!’

  Tracey discreetly looked around her and noticed that the neighbouring table had six chairs, none of them occupied; so much for it being necessary for the waiter to move chairs, she thought. Despite the obvious signs that she needed to be cautious, she sat down on what was now the only vacant chair at their table, just alongside the chair occupied by Michael; it was then that she noticed their bottle of sparkling wine had been replaced and that both their glasses were once more full.

  ‘Here’s to us!’ said Michael, raising his glass.

  Tracey did not reply, but she responded by raising her own glass too, and had
two or three more sips before replacing it on the table. It was then that she realised that Michael’s hand was now resting on her thigh.

  ‘Do you mind?’ she said, removing his hand from her thigh, and feeling relieved that she had chosen to wear a trouser suit rather than a short skirt.

  ‘Not if you don’t!’ said Michael, deliberately taking her answer the wrong way.

  ‘I’m a married woman!’ she protested.

  ‘And I’m a married man,’ Michael admitted.

  ‘What would your wife say if she knew what you were doing?’

  ‘I don’t know, but if she’d seen what a pretty girl you are, she would probably express her surprise that it had taken me so long!’

  ‘And you mean she wouldn’t mind?’ asked Tracey incredulously.

  ‘She wouldn’t mind at all! What’s more, when I get home tomorrow, I wouldn’t dream of asking her what she’s been doing tonight!’

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Because I expect she’s been taking advantage of the fact that I’m away overnight.’

  ‘Do you mean she’ll be with another man?’

  ‘I expect so, yes.’

  ‘And don’t you mind?’

  ‘I suppose I did at first, but eventually I got used to it. And it means I have a free hand when I’m away.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed that you were fairly free with your hands…’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Does it hurt if I make comments like that?’

  ‘Not really. I was just joking.’

  ‘So what do you want from me? Do you want to get me into bed?’

  ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, but the answer’s no!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I hardly know you!’

  ‘You soon would!’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to. Let’s get this straight. Do you mean my job depends on going to bed with the area manager?’

  ‘No, of course it doesn’t!’