Simon Brett - An Amateur Corpse

Because if Geoffrey Winter did try to kill him, he would do the job well. He was a meticulous planner. Charles thought of the set model for The Caucasian Chalk Circle in Geoffrey’s study. Every move carefully considered. Little plastic people being manipulated, disposed (and disposed of) according to the director’s will.

The thought of danger cast a chill over the conviviality of the pub and the glow of the fourth pint. Well, the solution was to get to the source of the danger as soon as possible, to prove Geoffrey’s guilt and have him put away before he could make a hostile move.

The pub was closing. Charles went to the Gents with the uncomfortable feeling that the amount he had consumed and the cold weather were going to make him want to go again before too long.

It was after two-thirty when he reached the Winters’ road. He walked along it at an even pace, apparently giving their house no deeper scrutiny than the others. Somehow he felt that the watchers of Breckton were still alert behind their net curtains on Sunday afternoons.

The Winters themselves had resisted the suburban uniform of net curtains, so from a casual glance he could feel pretty confident that they were out. But he did not start his timed walk from then. He felt sure there must be a route from the back of the house.

When he got to the end of the road, his hunch was proved right. The gardens of the row of identical semis (identical to everyone except their proud owners) backed on to the gardens of the parallel row in the next road. Between them ran a narrow passage flanked with back gates into minute gardens.

The alley was concreted over, its surface cracked and brown, marked with moss and weeds. Suburban secrecy insured that the end fencing of all the gardens was too high for anyone walking along the alley to see in (or, incidentally, to be seen).

As Charles walked along, he could hear sounds from the gardens. The scrape of a trowel, a snatch of conversation, the sudden wail of a child, very close the snuffling bark of a dog. But except for the occasional flash of movement through the slats of fencing, he saw no one.

And this was in the middle of Sunday afternoon. After dark one could feel absolutely secure in passing unseen along the alley. And Geoffrey Winter must have known that.

When he reached the Winter’s garden gate, he pressed close to the fence and squinted through a chink. He could see the distinctive wall-colouring of Geoffrey’s study and, outside it, the little balcony and staircase, so convenient for anyone who wanted to leave the room unnoticed after dark.

As anticipated, the pressure on his bladder was becoming uncomfortable and he stopped to relieve himself where he stood. He was again struck by the secluded nature of the alley, which enabled him to behave impolitely in such a polite setting.

Then he started his timed walk. He reckoned Geoffrey must have allowed a maximum of forty minutes. I, Claudius lasted fifty, but he could only get forty-five minutes of The Winter’s Tale on one side of the tape. Five minutes would be a buffer to allow for the unexpected.

Charles set off at a brisk walk. If Geoffrey had run, the timing would have been different, but Charles thought that was unlikely. A man running after dark attracts attention, while a man walking passes unnoticed.

The alley behind the houses came out on to the main road exactly opposite the footpath up to the common. There was a ‘No Cycling’ notice at the entrance. The path was paved until it opened out onto the common.

It was the first time Charles had seen this open expanse in daylight. In the centre were a couple of football pitches, which were reasonably well maintained, but the fringes of the common were ill-tended and untidy and had been used as a dumping ground by the nice people of Breckton. Superannuated fridges and rusty buckets looked almost dignified beside the more modern detritus of garish plastic and shredded polythene. It was an eyesore, the sort of mess about which aggrieved ratepayers no doubt wrote righteous letters to the local paper. To Charles it seemed a necessary part of the suburban, scene, the secret vice which made the outward rectitude supportable.

The half-burnt crater of the bonfire doused by the fire brigade at sour Reggie’s behest gave the dumping ground an even untidier and more melancholy appearance.

The bonfire had been built where the footpath divided into two. The right-hand fork went up towards the Backstagers’ club-rooms and the Hobbses’ house. Charles took the other path which led towards the Meckens’.

He was feeling the need for another pee, but resolutely hung on, because any unscheduled stop would ruin his timing. He wished he had got a stopwatch, so that he could suspend time long enough to make himself comfortable. But he hadn’t.

Even on a Sunday afternoon there were not many people up on the common. A few bored fathers trying to feign interest in their toddlers, one or two pensioners pretending they had somewhere to go. Breckton boasted other, more attractive parklands, equipped with such delights as swings and duck-ponds, and most of the inhabitants were there for their exercise.

It had rained during the week, but the path had dried out and was firm underfoot as Charles continued his brisk stroll. When he got to the other side of the common, the footpath once again had a proper surface of dark tarmac. His desert boot soles sounded dully as he trod.

To maintain his excitement he made a point of not looking at his watch until the journey was complete. He didn’t stop when he got to Hugo’s house. His memories of the new curtain snooper made him unwilling to draw attention to himself.

When he had gone one house-length beyond (which he reckoned would allow for going over the gravel drive to the front door), he looked at his watch.

Sixteen minutes. Geoffrey, with his longer stride, might have done it in fifteen. Say the same time each way. That gave eight to ten minutes in the house. Charlotte would have recognized him and let him in immediately, so there would have been no delay.

And eight or ten minutes was plenty of time for a determined man to strangle a woman.

If, of course, the murder weapon was to hand. On that kind of schedule, Geoffrey couldn’t afford time to look for a scarf. He must have known where it was or… no, there was something missing there.

Charles tried to focus his mind on the problem. He summoned up the image of Charlotte in the coal shed, surprised untidily by the torch beam. He remembered her face. The red hair that framed it had looked unnatural, as if it were dyed, against the horrible greyness of her flesh. And that thin knotted Indian print scarf which couldn’t hide the trickle of dried blood and the purply-brown bruises on her neck. Bruises almost like love-bites. He remembered what he had thought at the time, how she had looked so young, embarrassingly unsophisticated, like a teenager with a scarf inadequately hiding the evidence of a heavy petting session.

Good God — maybe that’s what it had been. After all, she had seen Geoffrey at lunch time. By then he must have planned the murder. It would be typical of the man’s mind if he had deliberately marked her neck, knowing that, respectable married woman that she was, she would be bound to put on a scarf to cover the bruising.

Then Geoffrey could go round in the evening, confident that the murder weapon would be to hand. Under the circumstances, he did not have to leave long for the strangling.

Charles shivered as he thought of the cold-bloodedness with which the crime had been planned.

He felt like an athlete in training for a major event. Everything was moving towards a confrontation with Geoffrey Winter. It was going to be risky to confront the villain with what he had deduced, but he couldn’t see any way round it. The evidence he had was minimal and certainly not enough to persuade the police to change their tack. So his only hope was to elicit some admission of guilt from Geoffrey.