Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

One disturbing feature of the proceedings, for which his ignorance of the British legal system had not prepared him, was the large number of policemen around. That in itself was not worrying, but it soon became apparent that for each case the arresting officer had to be present. He wasn’t sure who the arresting officer would be in Hugo’s case, but if it were one of the policemen he had met on the Tuesday night, Charles’s imposture could have serious consequences. He decided not to mention this new anxiety to Gerald. It would only upset him.

It was after twelve, and after some dreary cases of drunkeness, thefts and a taking and driving away, that Hugo was called. He came up into the dock accompanied by a policeman whom, thank God, Charles had never seen before. The prisoner was not handcuffed; in spite of the seriousness of the charge, he was not regarded as a public danger.

Charles turned round with some trepidation and discovered to his relief that there were no familiar faces among the policemen who had just entered the court.

He transferred his attention to his friend. Hugo looked lifeless. There was a greyish sheen to his face and bald dome; his eyes were dead like pumice-stone. Charles recognized that extinguished expression. He’d seen it in Oxford tutorials, in recording studios, at the various ports of call during their Monday drinking session. Hugo had retreated into his mind, closing the door behind him. Nobody could share what he found there, no friend, no wife.

This time the deadness seemed total, as if Hugo had withdrawn completely from the body. His movements when brought to the dock had been those of an automaton. Presumably he must still be suffering from a brain-crushing hangover — it would take a week or so to get over the sort of bender he had been on — but that wasn’t sufficient to explain the absolute impassivity of his expression. It was as if he had opted out of life completely.

The proceedings were short. The charge was read by the magistrate, the police said that they were not yet ready to proceed and the accused was remanded in custody for a week.

Suddenly Hugo was being led off down to the cells again. Gerald shook Charles by the shoulder. ‘Come on. We go down now.

The jailer was in a lenient mood and gave the two solicitors permission to go into the accused’s cell rather than leaving them to conduct their interview through the covered slot in the metal door.

The door was unlocked with caution, but as it swung open, it was apparent that no one need fear violence from the inmate.

Hugo sat on the bed, looking straight at the wall ahead of him. He did not stir as the genuine and false solicitors were ushered in or as the door clanged shut and was locked behind them.

‘How are you feeling?’ asked Gerald with professional jovialty.

‘All right,’ came the toneless reply.

‘Headache better?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Charles took the moment for his revelation. Perhaps it would be the necessary shock to shake Hugo out of his lethargy. ‘Look, it’s me — Charles.’

‘Hello.’ The response was again without animation. Without even surprise.

Unwilling to lose his coup, Charles continued, ‘I came in under cover of Gerald’s outfit.’

The solicitor winced predictably at the final word. To gain another predictable wince and maybe to shift Hugo’s mood by humour, Charles added, ‘There’s no substitute for knowing a bent lawyer.’

Gerald’s reaction was as expected; Hugo still gave none. Charles changed tack. ‘Look, Hugo, I know this is one hell of a situation and I feel partly responsible for it, because I’m sure if I hadn’t said certain things in my statement, you wouldn’t be here and — ’

Hugo cut him off, which at least demonstrated that he was taking in what was being said. But the voice in which he spoke remained lifeless. ‘Charles, if it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else. You only told them the truth and that was all they needed.’

‘Yes, but — ’

So there’s no need for you to feel guilty about me or feel you have to make quixotic gestures and come down here to save me from a terrible miscarriage of justice. I don’t blame you. I’m the only person to blame, if blame is the right word.’

‘What, you mean you think you killed her?’

‘That’s what I told the police.’

‘You’ve confessed?’

‘Yes.’

Charles looked at the solicitor. Gerald shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask. You swept me along with some wild scheme of your own and — ’

‘But, Hugo, is it true?’

‘Oh, Charles.’ The voice was infinitely weary. ‘I’ve spent some days going through this, both on my own and with the police. And… yes, I think I did it.’

‘But you can’t remember?’

‘Not the exact details. I know I staggered back from the Backstagers when the bar closed and I was full of hatred for Charlotte and drunk out of my mind. The next thing I remember with any clarity is waking up on the sitting room floor on Tuesday morning with the feeling that I’d done something terrible.’

‘But everyone feels like that when they’ve had a skinful.’ Hugo ignored him. ‘It’s no secret that Charlotte and I hadn’t been getting on too well, that… the magic had gone out of our marriage For the first time, there was slight intonation, a hint of bitterness as he spoke the cliche. ‘And it’s no secret that I’d started drinking too much and that when I drank, we fought. So I imagine it’s quite possible that, if I met her, smashed out of my mind, on Monday night, I laid hands on her and…’ In spite of the detachment with which he was speaking, he was unable to finish the sentence.

‘But you can’t remember doing it?’

‘I can’t remember anything when I’m that smashed.’

‘Then why did you confess to killing her?’

‘Why not? It fits the facts remarkable well. The motivation was there, the opportunity. I think my guilt is a reasonable deduction.’

‘Did the police put pressure on you to — ’

No, Charles. For Christ’s sake-’ He mastered this momentary lapse of control. ‘I reached the conclusion on my own, Charles. I was under no pressure.’ Realizing the irony of his last remark, he laughed a little laugh that was almost a sob.

‘So you are prepared to confess to a murder you can’t even remember just because the facts fit?’

Gerald came in at this juncture with the legal viewpoint.

‘I think this may be one of the most fruitful areas for the defence, actually. If you really can’t remember, of course we won’t be able to get you off the murder charge and that’s mandatory life, but the judge might well make some recommendation and you could be out in eight years.’

‘You’re talking as though his guilt were proven, Gerald.’

‘Yes, Charles. To my mind — ’

‘For Christ’s sake, both of you shut up! What does it matter? What’s the difference?’

Charles came in, hard. ‘The difference is, that if you are found guilty of murder, you’ll be put away for life. And if you are not found guilty…’ He petered out.

‘Exactly.’ It was only then that Charles realized the depths of Hugo’s despair. His friend was bankrupt of any kind of hope. It made little difference whether he spent the rest of his life in prison or at large. Except if he were free, drink might help him shorten his sentence.

Gerald got to his feet in an official sort of way. ‘You see, Charles, I didn’t really think there was much point in your coming down here. I’m afraid it’s an open-and-shut case. All we can do is to ensure that it’s as well presented as possible. Actually Hugo, I wanted to discuss the matter of instructing counsel. I felt — ’