Michael Dibdin - Dirty Tricks

I lowered myself into a chair. Dick appeared to engross himself in a study of the Parsons’ record collection while Tom recited his piece as though reading it from an autocue.

‘Powys police have recovered a body which they believe to be that of your wife, sir. We would like you to accompany us to Wales with a view to identifying the remains.’

‘Dead? How?’

‘The body was recovered from a reservoir, we understand.’

‘But that’s ridiculous! Kay’s an excellent swimmer. She teaches it! She’s got certificates, cups …’

Tom looked at Dick, who stuck his tongue between his upper lip and teeth and sucked hard. He was clearly longing to make some crack about it being hard to swim with a concrete post tied to your back.

We reached Llandrindod Wells, the county town, early that evening. Tom and Dick maintained a discreet silence throughout the drive, like undertaker’s assistants. Left to my own devices in the back seat, I reviewed the story I had prepared, searching for loopholes and finding none. After some backchat on the two-way radio we were met by a local police car which escorted us to the hospital where the body had been taken. I was then conducted to the mortuary chapel, where a small group of men were standing around a plinth supporting a polythene-wrapped package. One of them introduced himself as the Home Office pathologist and explained that in order to preserve continuity of evidence it was necessary for me to identify the body before they could proceed.

Two of the others undid the tape binding the package together and carefully parted the flaps so as to allow me a glimpse of the face. It was not a pretty sight. They say that in the first week of a diet you’re just shedding water, and spending thirty-six hours in a reservoir obviously has the opposite effect. Karen looked all puffy and pouchy and wrinkled, as though she’d been on a steroid treatment that had gone terribly wrong. They’d positioned me on the left side, so that the injury to the temple was invisible. Nor could I see the concrete post, though its bulk was evident, or the tow-rope binding her to it. It was all very discreet.

I nodded numbly.

‘It’s my wife.’

The two men immediately set about sealing up the package again. Poor Karen! For the past three days she’d been out of one plastic bag and into another like a bit of left-over food at the bottom of the fridge.

Tom and Dick escorted me back to the Sierra, where we were joined by a Welsh detective I shall call Harry. He was a soft, secretive man with mottled skin, and reminded me irresistibly of a toad.

‘First left at the lights, lads,’ he told the others. ‘There’s Sal’s cafe burned out since she left the deep-fryer on all night and now it’s going to be a Wimpy. Just up here on the right, past the antique shop. Couple from London bought it last year, ever so nice but I can’t see how they’ll make a go of it with the prices they charge.’

At local police headquarters Tom and Dick went off to the canteen while Harry led me into a bare room rather like an old-fashioned doctor’s surgery. I sat in the patient’s chair and Harry went off in search of someone called Dai. He offered to fetch me something to eat, but I declined, feeling that a man who had just viewed his wife’s corpse shouldn’t have an appetite. Dai turned out to be a bluff, cheery man with a red face, like a reporter for the local farmers’ gazette. He sat down beside Harry on the other side of the desk, opened a large notebook and licked his pencil as though it were a lollipop.

‘We just want to get your side of the story,’ Harry explained, ‘for the record.’

I repeated the account of events I had given the police the day before. Karen had told me that she was going to spend the weekend in Liverpool with her mother. On Saturday morning I had driven her to Oxford station and seen her off on the train. I then returned home and spent the day alone. When I phoned Liverpool the next morning, my mother-in-law told me that Karen was not there, and that she had not been expecting her.

‘Why did you phone then?’ asked Harry casually.

‘I noticed an announcement in the Sunday paper about a concert I particularly wanted to go to. It would have meant I wouldn’t be home when Kay got back, so I wanted to check that she had her keys and so on.’

Harry nodded while his colleague busily scribbled away in shorthand.

‘So you took your wife to the station on Saturday morning at about nine thirty, and phoned her mother at about the same time on Sunday. And in between?’

‘I didn’t see her.’

‘What about other people?’

‘I was at home all day, apart from going for a walk in the late afternoon.’

‘You were on your own the whole time, then?’

‘Well there were other people out on Port Meadow, of course, but no one I recognized.’

‘No one came to the house or spoke to you on the phone?’

‘No.’

Harry nodded.

‘Only we’ve got to ask, see, because of this alleged kidnapping.’

‘You think someone kidnapped Karen?’

‘No, no. We’ve got a man here, see, Phillips is the name, claims to have been locked in the boot of a car and turned loose in the mountains round this way on Saturday night.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘Well, you see, he says you did it.’

I pshawed. You don’t often get a chance to pshaw these days, and I made the most of it.

‘That’s preposterous! I don’t even know any Mr … Just a minute. What did you say his name was?’

‘Phillips.’

‘Not Clive Phillips?’

Harry’s face lit up, as though all our problems were now solved.

‘Ah, you know him!’

‘Clive? Of course we do! Karen’s first husband was his accountant. They were quite close. Actually we haven’t seen much of him since our marriage. I particularly didn’t care for his manner with Karen.’

‘How was that, then?’

‘Well, it’s hard to describe. He had a way of treating her as though she were still single.’

Harry took out a packet of Silk Cut.

‘Smoke?’

‘I don’t, thanks. Perhaps it would have been different if we’d had children. Without them it’s all a bit theoretical, isn’t it? Not that Karen seemed to mind, about Clive I mean. But I found it all in rather poor taste.’

‘Kiddies are a blessing in disguise all right,’ Harry agreed.

‘Karen said she didn’t want them. It was out of the question of course, with my vasectomy.’

The beauty of the dead, I was beginning to realize, is that you cannot just speak ill of them, you can say what the hell you like without the slightest fear of contradiction.

‘If only we could have had a family,’ I went on. ‘At least there would be something of her left behind …’

I broke down. Mugs of tea and packets of biscuits were produced. I gradually pulled myself together.

‘Where exactly was she found?’ I asked Harry.

‘Up Rhayader way.’

‘Rhayader? That’s odd.’

He looked at me expectantly.

‘Oh, it’s just a coincidence, but we stayed there once, you see. At the Elan Valley Lodge. Last September, it was, just before we got engaged. Lovely spot. I’ll always remember the walks we took together …’

Out came the hankie again. While my head was lowered, I tried to think if there was anything else I wanted the police to know. They could surely be trusted to discover that Karen and Clive had been booked into the same hotel the previous weekend, and that the deposit had been secured on one of her credit cards. I couldn’t think of any way to communicate the fact of Karen’s interesting condition, but that would presumably come to light during the post-mortem that was currently in progress. I had mentioned my vasectomy, so once they found out that Karen had been pregnant, it was going to be a clear case of cherchez l’homme . They wouldn’t have far to look.