Simon Brett - A Shock to the System

So totally had he expunged the memory of his wife that when the call came through, his first reaction was of irritation. Reality was limping too slowly behind his thoughts. The new structures in his mind were all designed, but he had to deal with a few niggling details before he could start building them. Merrily’s death became a formality, no more than a planning permission, but one that still, exasperatingly, had to be obtained.

He had flown to Brussels on Wednesday, 22nd April, and the conference had started that afternoon. He had an untroubled expectation that he might hear something from London the next morning, but the call did not come, so he was able to enjoy the point-scoring of the second day. He was in the hotel foyer on his way to the first Friday session when he was paged for a phone call. He took it in a booth near the Reception Desk.

His first feeling when the speaker identified himself as a policeman was one of annoyance. He had been looking forward to the day’s events. The second session in particular, a seminar on redeployment of staff too inefficient to be left in their current jobs but too senior to be demoted, was exactly the sort of occasion when Graham would excel. Still, he had to get the planning permission, tedious though it was.

‘I’m very sorry, sir. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’

‘What? Something hasn’t happened to one of the children?’

He was gratified by the glibness with which the right words came into his mouth.

‘Not the children, no sir. I’m afraid it’s your wife.’

‘What? Has she had a car accident?’ Again, he congratulated himself.

‘No, sir. Not a car accident. A domestic … an accident with electricity.’

‘Oh, my God. Is she all right?’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid she’s dead.’

Mentally he counted up to ten before saying, ‘Oh no! She can’t be!’

And while he counted, he felt the glow of satisfaction spread within him.

The water of the Channel gleamed enticingly as he looked down from the plane. He had enjoyed the last few hours, making his excuses to the conference organisers, booking his flight, dispassionately explaining the circumstances of his need and feeling the officials’ admiration for his bravery. Having lost his wife was like holding a sick-note, an excuse only to do the things he chose.

But it was much, much more than that. It was an achievement, an ambition realised. He had decided to kill her and, almost by remote control, he had brought about her death.

His point of vantage over the Channel was suitably godlike. He was in charge, a puppet-master pulling the strings he selected at the moment he chose.

He felt a sense of power.

He had told the police when he was arriving and there was a uniformed constable at the Boileau Avenue house to meet him.

Graham’s first question was: ‘Where are the children?’, which he thought sounded properly concerned. He had devoted the journey to thinking of appropriate emotions for a widower. What he was really feeling, a gleeful confidence, he knew would not fit the bill.

‘They’ve gone to their grandmother’s, sir,’ the constable replied. ‘She said she could cope. Obviously very upset she was, but said it was her duty to look after the poor motherless little ones.’

Graham’s knowledge of his mother-in-law left him in no doubt that the policeman was quoting her verbatim. Merrily’s death, he felt sure, had provided Lilian with an irresistible new range of scenes to play to the extent of her histrionic powers.

‘Yes. The children. It’s terrible. It’s going to scar them for life.’ He felt these disjointed sentences were suitable for a man in his supposed state of shock.

‘They recover, sir. Remarkably resilient. Though I’m afraid your daughter. . She actually found your wife’s body.’

‘Oh no.’

The constable nodded lugubriously. ‘’Fraid so, sir. Not till the next morning, but — You know how your wife died, sir?’

Yes, of course I do, Graham was about to reply, but then remembered that no one had told him the precise details. He must concentrate. Step warily. Not allow the bubbling confidence inside to let down his act of bewildered bereavement.

‘I just know it was an electrical accident.’

The policeman outlined what was believed to have happened, and Graham found that the official conjecture was gratifyingly close to his own projection of events.

‘. . and the shock ran along her arms and stopped the heart. Then she fell down from the loft on to the landing, but the children didn’t hear anything. It was next morning that your daughter found her.’

‘They sleep so heavily,’ said Graham in a dull voice. Then, feeling an outburst might be timely, added, ‘Oh God! If only they’d woken! If she’d got to a hospital in time, she might have been saved.’

‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t have helped, sir. Death must have been instantaneous. She wouldn’t have felt a thing.’

‘I suppose that’s some kind of comfort.’ Graham allowed his voice to break a little. Then he swayed and reached for the wall to support himself.

The constable was instantly solicitous. ‘Here, you sit down, sir. Come on, you’ve had a terrible shock. Look, I’ll go and make you a cup of tea.’

Graham sat and waited, rationing out occasional sighs and sobs when he thought the policeman was in earshot. The tea came; standard practice in dealing with shock had been followed and it was very sweet. Not to Graham’s usual taste, but he drank it gratefully.

When he reckoned sufficient time had elapsed for him to have recovered, he decided to show more curiosity. He didn’t wish to appear unsurprised by what had happened. ‘But how? Why was the switch live?’

‘Old wiring, sir, I’m afraid. The insulation was perished. She’d probably have survived just touching the switch, but supporting herself between it and the water pipe, she didn’t have a chance.’

‘Oh God,’ Graham intoned. Then threw in another for good measure. ‘Oh God. I knew the wiring was dangerous. We were about to have it done. I’d got the estimate in. It was going to be started next week. He couldn’t do it. . any. . earlier.

He was rather pleased with the way he let this sentence tail off. Lilian was not the only member of the family with dramatic talent.

‘Our people have looked at the wiring, and made it safe temporarily,’ said the constable. ‘Death trap they reckon, the whole house. If it hadn’t been the loft switch, it could easily have been somewhere else.’

Good, thought Graham, good. That all helps to make the killing more plausible. He felt the welling confidence, which had been so slow to arrive after the old man’s murder, that he was going to get away with it. An involuntary smile began to twitch at the corner of his mouth. To maintain appearances, he bit on his knuckle and shook his head in ostensible disbelief.

It was as well he was looking away, because the constable’s next speech was tinged, for the first time, with suspicion, and Graham had to plan his reaction.

‘One thing that did puzzle us, sir. .’ the policeman began diffidently, ‘was why your wife went up to the loft, anyway. .’

‘Why?’

‘Seemed a strange thing for her to do, while you were away. According to her mother, she had never been up there before. .’

Trust Lilian to put her oar in. ‘No, no, I don’t believe she had.’

‘Her mother said your wife was planning some tidying, but not in the loft. Presumably she was looking for something.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘We had a look round up there to see what it might be she was after.’

‘Oh yes.’ Graham gave little. He would wait until the direction of the man’s words became clear before he chose his reaction.