Nine Lives Page 2

  The boys were home from school when she returned and they helped her offload the shopping. She set about preparing supper. Harry’s last patient would be gone by seven. Then he would come downstairs and join her in a pre-prandial cocktail. A martini. Every evening at seven. The boys went to the nearby park to play tennis, also part of the routine but they would return in time for supper and homework thereafter. I run a tight ship, Penny thought, a little disturbed by her own conceit. Such ideas tempted the gods and the evil eye. But all that was nonsense, she told herself, as she liquidised the broccoli soup for their first course.

  Shortly before seven, the boys returned and set to laying the table. Meanwhile, Penny prepared the cocktails and set the tray on the drawing-room side-table. A small bowl of nuts completed the picture, as the church clock struck seven.

  Penny sat down and waited. She listened for Harry’s tread on the stairs, and was faintly unnerved by the sudden silence in the house. She couldn’t understand it. Every evening at seven, Harry’s footsteps chimed with the church bell. He was meticulous in his timing. His last patient must surely have left by now. Yet she was reluctant to call him. He was possibly catching up with paperwork and it was an unspoken rule in the house that he was never to be disturbed. She waited until seven-fifteen, then she poured herself a martini to steady her nerves. Paul and James crept into the drawing room. Why this tip-toeing, she wondered. And why this terrible silence?

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ James whispered. ‘He’s late.’

  Which indeed he was, and would never be later. They held on to the silence until seven-thirty. And then Penny said something that in future she would live endlessly to regret and would forever punish herself for the damage she had caused to her deeply loved sons.

  ‘Go and see what he’s up to, James,’ she said.

  ‘Why me?’ James asked. He knew his father’s rule of privacy.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Paul said. ‘If you come with me.’ It was as if he was volunteering for the dark and was frightened.

  ‘Fair enough,’ James said, and they crept up the stairs, dodging each other, neither of them willing to go first.

  They arrived together at their father’s door. And together they knocked. And waited. After a little while, they knocked again.

  ‘He’s not there,’ James said, anxious to make a hasty retreat. ‘He must have gone out.’

  ‘I’m going to open it and see,’ Paul said. ‘You’re coming in with me. Dad?’ he called out, giving him a last chance to respond. So they opened the door to break the silence.

  Downstairs, Penny heard the screaming. Later on she would wonder why she didn’t respond immediately, why she took time to finish her martini and even to nibble a few nuts. As she stood up, her knees melted, and she hobbled to the staircase. ‘I’m coming,’ she said, and she didn’t recognise her own voice.

  The boys stood in the doorway.

  ‘Don’t go in,’ James whimpered. ‘It’s terrible.’

  But she pushed past them and greeted the scene in dumbfounded silence. She crossed over to his desk and stroked his hair.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ Paul said. ‘We must call the police.’

  She went on stroking as the tears rolled down her cheeks. She was tempted to lift his head, but she dreaded what she would find. The boys put their arms around her and led her away. Their oh-so-bright futures were blighted and they would need someone of their father’s calling to comfort them. Or not. One who would, according to his or her personal hang-ups, presume they thought of themselves as killers, and would go the long road over many years to convince them that they had not murdered their father, when such a thought had never crossed their minds in the first place. Such a technique could also pass as comfort, but God knows to what horrendous ends.

  The boys brought their mother back to the drawing room. Paul poured her another drink while James went into the hall to phone the police. The door was open, so his message could be heard. ‘Come quickly,’ he whimpered. ‘Our father’s dead.’ He included Paul in his loss. ‘Murdered,’ he said, after a pause, and in one muffled syllable. ‘Come quickly,’ he said again, as if their speed might resuscitate his father. He gave the address nonchalantly as if, compared to his loss, its location was irrelevant. Then he returned to the drawing room. Paul was drinking the second martini as though he’d already replaced his father.

  The police came quickly and discreetly. Just two of them at first. In plain clothes, and in an unmarked car. Not sufficient cause to merit the raising of net curtains in the close. James opened the door for them and motioned them up the stairs. He was reluctant to lead them, but they found their way.

  The door to Harry’s consulting room was wide open. Aghast.

  Downstairs, the family could find no words. It was too soon for speculation, too soon even for anger. The time was ripe only for disbelief. And silence. A silence sometimes broken by footsteps overhead and the sudden ringing of the doorbell. Then hasty footsteps down the stairs, and the opening of the front door and the tread of several feet to the first landing. Paul poured his mother another martini and one for himself. This was not routine. There would be no seven o’clock supper tonight. There would be no homework after the uneaten meal. Routine was shattered and their lives would never be the same again. And still the silence and bewilderment that could not find words. Broken at last by a knock on the door.

  It was a policeman. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Wilkins,’ he said as he entered. ‘I am very sorry.’ How often had he used that phrase, he wondered. And did he still mean it after all its frequency? But in this case, children were involved and he meant it well enough, for how could they survive such a horrendous legacy?

  ‘How did he die?’ Penny had at last found her voice. Wilkins had dreaded that question, for its true answer would in no way ease her sorrow.

  ‘Strangled,’ he said. It was a half-truth. But ‘garrotted’ was unpronounceable and smacked of medieval cruelty. ‘Death was immediate,’ he said. ‘He didn’t suffer.’ Another phrase he had used often enough and never been too sure of its truth. But true or not, it was standard procedure.

  ‘The pathologist hazards the death at four o’clock. Was anybody at home at that time?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘I was at the supermarket,’ Penny said. ‘And the boys were at school.’

  ‘We’ve looked at your husband’s diary,’ Wilkins said. ‘His last patient at four o’clock was a Mr George Pendry. No address is given. Do you know that name, Mrs Winston?’ he asked

  ‘No,’ Penny said. ‘I had little to do with my husband’s profession. It is one of confidentiality, you know.’

  ‘I understand,’ Wilkins said. There would be little help from that quarter, he knew, and that oath of secrecy in the profession could hinder his investigation further. He had more questions to ask, but he sensed that this was no time for investigation. ‘We have to remove your husband’s body,’ he said. ‘We shall do a post-mortem.’

  It was that word that brought the truth to the three of them. Disbelief dispersed and together they began to weep, holding each other in their sorrow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Wilkins said again. He backed towards the door. ‘I’ll be in touch. We’ll find whoever did it,’ he said. ‘I promise you.’

  But he knew he was in no position to make such a promise. There were no fingerprints, no signs of a break-in. No disturbance. Only a body with a guitar string around its neck. He shuddered as he recalled it. Garrotting was rare, and never left clues. It was a distant manoeuvre. Safe. A non-touching crime, executed from behind. Gruesome. He opened the front door and took a gulp of fresh air. He would wait for the ambulance to arrive. When it came, sidling slowly into the kerb, the net curtains found a cause, and all over the close they were raised in curiosity tinged with pleasure. There was no movement around the vehicle. It looked patient, parked there, un-urgent, which indeed it was, for the dead were in no hurry. The neighbours waited too, and were shortly rewarded
with the sight of two men with a stretcher who alighted from the van and went to open the back doors. And, what’s more, to carry the stretcher between them, which they took into the house. The neighbours waited and shortly the stretcher reappeared, covered with a black cloth. Then it was loaded into the van, which drove away as silently as it had arrived. The show was over, but they had only viewed the final act. In time, they would learn of the drama behind the scenes.

  The neighbourhood was appalled. Harry Winston was a loved man in the community. A generous man, an organiser of good causes, a wonderful husband and father. This almost-too-good-to-be-true reputation served to feed the anger and indignation of his many friends. Even his patients, who came forward willingly to testify to his compassion and skill. According to the Council for Psychotherapy, Harry Winston was a leading pioneer in the field. His killer had to be found. And quickly.

  DI Wilkins did his best, but he had little to go on. Few witnesses could be traced, apart from a couple of schoolboys who said that they had seen a man walking past them at around that time. But they couldn’t remember what he looked like, except for his trilby hat which they thought was a bit ‘square’. But that man could have been anybody. No one could be found who bore Mr Winston a grudge though Wilkins trailed through his list of patients, past and present, some dead, but others alive enough to praise him. The press was on his back, as was his superior, as well as the mayor of the borough who accused him of dragging his feet. Mr Harry Winston would not be put on the back-burner. What promised to be but a nine-days’ wonder stubbornly persisted through the coming weeks, but eventually indignation waned. There were lives to be lived and a future to face. All that was left was sympathy and support for the widow and her children.

  But at headquarters, the file was kept doggedly open. DI Wilkins, desperate for leads, organised a reconstruction of the crime on Crimewatch, but never, in the long history of that series, had there been so little feedback. Wilkins sensed that the killer would strike again. And possibly in the same manner. He would bide his time. And his faith was not misplaced.

  I slept very badly …

  I slept very badly last night. Always do before I have to go and see Donald. He’s been moved. Much further away. Maximum security, they call it, as if they expect him to escape. I have to laugh. My Donald escaping. He’s far too lazy even to think about it. Always has been. Especially since the legacy. An uncle of his, no children, left him a packet – enough for him to give up work. He was tempted, but I dissuaded him. I didn’t want him around the house all day. Still, he didn’t work much. He must have been the laziest accountant in London. He kept his office, but he didn’t employ a secretary. He sat there all alone, doing the books. Bit of a loner, my Donald. He’ll not be unhappy in solitary.

  It was a long journey. I had to change trains twice and then get a bus at the other end. Still, it didn’t matter. It gave me time to think. Think about what I was going to say to him. But we never talked much, even when he was free. In all our years of marriage, I know no more about him now than when we first met. He never talked about his family. I didn’t even know if he had any brothers or sisters. Or if his parents were still alive. He went to a funeral once, a few years ago, but he didn’t mention whose it was. Maybe his dad or his mum. There was another funeral shortly after that one, so I presumed he was an orphan. He didn’t seem too upset about either of them. When we first met, I thought he’d introduce me to his family, but he said they were always travelling, mostly abroad. But he promised that he’d get us together one day. I never reminded him of that promise. I thought it might upset him. I took him to meet mine though, just my mum, because my father had left, and she quite took to Donald. She’s dead now too. I’m glad she didn’t live to see what happened. But I miss her. I could do with her advice at this time. Or some explanation, because I don’t understand it at all.

  The first train journey was a short one. Just two stops, so there was no point in settling my mind to thinking. I would wait till I got on the next train. An hour’s journey that one, and plenty of time to wonder what to say to him. Whatever I do say to him. I didn’t know if it was the truth or a lie – whether he really did what they all said he did. Surely I would have noticed? If a man murders ten people, surely his wife would notice some change in his behaviour? He would have been nervous, ill-tempered and terrified. But not my Donald. On the contrary, he was elated sometimes, really cheerful, as if he’d pulled off some big business deal. And on some nights, just between you and me, he made love just like Casanova. Though I don’t know who Casanova was, but I’ve heard it said he was a great lover. Of course we made love from time to time, just matter-of-fact stuff, but those times I’m talking about, those special times, he seemed possessed. I enjoyed those thoughts on my train journey and I indulged in them, all the way to the prison. So that when I arrived, I still had no idea what I was going to say to him.

  This was my first visit to the new prison, so I had to make myself known all over again, with that same name that I don’t know how to pronounce.

  ‘Ver-ine,’ I said, giving each syllable an equal chance. The warder looked at me as if I were lying. ‘Dorricks will do,’ he said. ‘Through the swing doors on your left.’

  I made my way to reception, and felt like a new prisoner. I was led into a long corridor lined with booths. I had to sit facing a glass partition and wait for Donald to appear behind it.

  ‘Use the phone to talk,’ the warder said, acknowledging me as a first-timer. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  I’ll have plenty of time to accustom myself, I thought. Donald was in for life. But would I keep visiting him, month after month, dissembling on a telephone line? Or would I cut my losses? Take the advice of Donald’s lawyer and move to another place? But I’d only do that if I was convinced my Donald was a murderer. And personally, I don’t have any proof.

  I waited for Donald to appear, and when he did, shortly afterwards, I was struck by how well he looked. Prison suited him. He’d put on a little weight and though his hair was closely shaven, he looked a lot younger. An innocent face, I thought, a claim that he confirmed immediately as he picked up the phone.

  ‘I’m innocent,’ he said, as he always did. ‘You believe that, don’t you?’

  I nodded into the phone.

  He pressed his hand over the partition and I sensed that I had to cover it with my own. He smiled and so did I. I loved that glass wall. It meant he couldn’t embrace me or touch me in any way. All he could savour was the print of my hand, as lustful as a kiss through a wooden panel. But there was more to the glass than the distance it entailed. Much more. It gave me a sudden sense of freedom. I was untouchable, so I could say anything I wanted. All the questions I’d been too timid to ask in our many years together could now be released without fear of irritated response.

  ‘D’you have any other visitors?’ I dared to ask. ‘Your parents?’ He shook his head over the phone.

  ‘Dead,’ he said. ‘Both of them.’ It had taken all those years of co-habitation, and a glass partition, to inform me that my husband was an orphan.

  ‘Any brothers? Sisters?’ I was becoming bold.

  ‘No. I’m an only,’ he said.

  At last he had spoken. That mouth of his, that after almost thirty years of marriage had been clammed shut on such basic information, had now, with the shield of a glass partition, suddenly opened. It was not so much the news itself that astonished me; it was the realisation that I had been so accepting of his silence and for so long – that I had never questioned his reserve, his reticence. I had simply acknowledged him as a dark horse. Yet I thought I knew him, and knew him well, but now I understood that I knew nothing of the core of him and I had made do with his simple outline.

  ‘You must have been lonely as a child,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  The glass partition clearly prescribed limits. But I would not stop trying to make him out. I would persist, I decided. Next time,
I’d visit him as long as I needed. As long as I needed to ferret out the nub of him and perhaps begin to fathom what was, until now, beyond my understanding. Through a glass darkly, I would begin to unravel my doubts.

  ‘I would like to see the boys,’ he said.

  I had no answer to that one. They had written him off and he was unlikely to see them ever again.

  ‘They think I’m guilty, don’t they?’ he said.

  Again I had no answer. They, and the twelve jurors, good and true, I thought, along with thousands of others. What was so odd about me that I couldn’t go along with the majority verdict? I suppose it was pride. For how could I admit to having lived with and loved such a man? It was vanity, the flipside of my self-contempt. But I would persevere. I would come again and again. At the end of that telephone line, I would wrench out of him all that he was loath to tell me. I would wring him dry.

  ‘You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,’ he said.

  At that moment, I could have shattered the glass and put my arms around him. I don’t know whether it would have been a gesture of love, or perhaps pity. Probably, alas, the latter. For pity is so hard to live with. It diminishes both parties. It would have been easier to hate him. Or to love him even. Either of those feelings I could live with and learn from. But pity corrodes, and my nights were sleepless enough without it.

  ‘I haven’t heard from the boys myself,’ I said into the phone. I wanted to be part of his isolation.

  ‘You must be lonely,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I miss you.’ And I meant it.

  ‘Me too,’ he said. And smiled.

  I couldn’t think of anything more to say, and I was relieved when the warder appeared and put his hand on Donald’s shoulder. It seemed a gentle touch and I was grateful for it.

  ‘Time’s up,’ he said.

  Donald took his hand from the glass, and mine was left there, reprinting nothing. I watched him leave. He did not look behind him, so there was no point in waving. But I kept my hand on the partition, as if to reserve that spot as my own. Because I would be coming back; and back again until I could prise the truth out of him, so that I could cease to be ashamed of my ignorance.