Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

‘Domestic troubles?’ Charles repeated idiotically.

‘Worries about his marriage.’

‘Oh. Oh, I shouldn’t think so. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t think anyone can begin to understand anything about another person’s marriage. But I mean Charlotte is a — I mean, was a beautiful girl and…’ He trailed off guiltily.

‘Hmm. Mr. Paris, would you describe Mr. Mecken as a violent man?’

‘No, certainly not. And if you’re trying to suggest that — ’

‘I am not trying to suggest anything, Mr. Paris. I am just trying to get as full a background to the death of Mrs Mecken as I can,’ Detective-Sergeant Harvey replied evenly.

‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry.’ Blustering wasn’t going to help Hugo’s cause. As his interrogation continued, Charles kept thinking of his friend, in another interview room, being asked other questions. Where were Hugo’s answers leading?

‘You say Mr. Mecken is not a habitually violent man. Is he perhaps the sort who might become violent when he’s had a few drinks? I mean, for instance, did he show any violence towards you during your long drinking session on Monday?’

Charles hesitated. Certainly he wasn’t going to go back to Hugo’s bizarre outburst while an undergraduate and his instinct was to deny that anything had happened on the Monday. But Hugo’s second swing at him had been witnessed by a bar full of Backstagers. He couldn’t somehow see that self-dramatizing lot keeping quiet about it. He’d do better to edit the truth than to tell a lie. ‘Well, he did take a sort of playful swing at me at one point when I’ suggested he ought to be getting home, but that’s all.’

‘A playful swing.’ Detective-Sergeant Harvey gave the three words equal emphasis.

The questioning ended soon after and the information was turned into a written statement. Detective-Sergeant Harvey courteously went through a selection of the questions again and Constable Renton laboriously wrote down the answers in longhand on ruled paper.

Inevitably it was a slow process and Charles found his mind wandering. He didn’t like the way it was heading.

Previously he had been numb with shock, but now the fact of Charlotte’s death was getting through to him. The feeling of guilt which his initially casual reaction had prompted gave way to a cold sensation of nausea.

‘With it came a realization of the implications for Hugo. As Charles went through the details for his statement, he saw with horror which way the circumstantial evidence pointed.

There were so many witnesses too. So many people who had heard Hugo’s denunciation of his wife and his violent burst of aggression towards Charles. Unless Hugo could prove a very solid alibi for the time at which his wife had been murdered, things didn’t look too good for him.

At this point it struck Charles that he was assuming Hugo was innocent and he paused to question the logic of this. On reflection, it didn’t stand up very well. In fact the only arguments he could come up with against Hugo’s guilt were Hugo’s own denial that he would ever hurt Charlotte and Charles’s own conviction that someone he knew so well would be incapable of a crime of such savagery.

And those weren’t arguments. They were sheer emotion, romantic indulgence.

The thought of romanticism only made it worse. It suggested a very plausible motive for Hugo to kill his wife. Hugo was a romantic, unwilling to accept the unpleasant facts of life. He had built up his own life into a romantic ideal, with his writing talent supporting the professional side and his love-affair with Charlotte the domestic.

When it became clear to such a man that the twin pillars of his life were both illusions, anything could happen.

He finished the statement and was asked to read it through, signing each page. At one point he hesitated.

‘Anything wrong?’ asked Detective-Sergeant Harvey.

‘Well, I… it seems so bald, so…’ He couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound like protesting too much. ‘No.’ He signed on.

He was amazed, to discover it was nearly five o’clock. Dully he accepted the offer of the lift home in a squad car. He gave his’ Hereford Road address.

He didn’t notice the drabness of the bedsitter as he entered. He homed in on the bottle of Bells straight away and sank half a tumblerful. Then he lay down on the bed and lost consciousness.

When he. woke, it was still dark. Or rather, he realized after looking at his watch, dark again. Quarter past six. He’s slept round the clock.’

He was still dressed. He left the house and walked along Hereford Road to Westbourne Grove. There was a newspaper seller on the corner. He bought and Evening Standard.

It didn’t take long to find the news. Hugo Mecken had been arrested, charged with the murder of his wife, Charlotte.

And Charles Paris felt is was his fault.

In spite of logic, the feeling of treachery remained. Charles Paris had deserted his friend in a crisis. Charles Paris had incriminated his friend by his statement.

He had to do something. At least find out all the circumstances, at least check that no mistakes had been made.

He hurried back to the house in Hereford Road, went to the pay-phone on the landing and dialled Gerald Venables’s office number.

Gerald was a successful show business solicitor whom Charles had known since Oxford. Armed with a boyish enthusiasm for the whole business of detection, he had collaborated with Charles on one or two investigations, starting with the strange death of Marius Steen. In the current circumstances, it was an immediate instinct to ring Gerald.

An efficient, husky voice answered the phone.

‘Is that Polly?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Charles Paris. Could I speak to Gerald, please?’

‘I’m sorry, he’s not here.’

‘Oh, sod it. Is he on his way home?’

‘No, he’s out with a client, I’m afraid. He was called down to Breckton mid-morning and he’s been there all day.’

‘Oh my God, of course. He’s Hugo Mecken’s solicitor, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. That’s who he’s with. I gather you’ve heard the news.’

‘Yes.’ It wasn’t worth going into details of how he had been the first to hear it. ‘Stupid of me. I’d forgotten. Gerald sorted out Hugo’s divorce, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. And he was a bit shocked when he discovered what it was about this time.’

‘That I can believe. Look, Polly, have you any idea when he’ll be back? I mean, is he reckoning to go back to the office?’

‘No. He rang about half an hour ago to say he’d go straight to Dulwich from Breckton. And asked me to ring Mrs Venables and say he’d be late.’

‘Why didn’t, he ring her himself?’ Charles asked irrelevantly.

‘I think it sounds more businesslike if I do.’ Polly replied with a hint of humour.

Yes, that was Gerald all over. ‘Polly, when he says “very late”, what do you reckon that means?’

‘I honestly don’t know. He said I was to say ten-thirty at the earliest to Mrs Venables.’

‘Okay. Thanks, Polly. He didn’t say anything else about… you know, the case… or Hugo… or anything.’

‘No. Well, there isn’t really much to say, is there?’

‘I suppose not.’

Charles spent an unsatisfactory evening and drank too much. He thought of ringing Frances, but put it off again. Round eight he realized he hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours.

He didn’t feel hungry, but he thought he ought to have something.

Going out to a restaurant was too much effort. He was too jumpy to sit down and relax over a proper meal. He looked round the room. There was an opened packet of cornflakes on the table. No milk. He tried a handful. They were soft, cardboard.