Simon Brett - A Shock to the System

The girl reeled off a list of models and prices. Graham selected a Vauxhall Chevette. The girl started to fill in a form.

‘Could I have your name, sir?’ ‘George Brewer.’

‘I’ll need your driving licence.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He took out George’s wallet and put the old man’s driving licence on the counter.

‘No endorsements, sir?’

An ugly moment. He had no idea of George Brewer’s record as a driver, but gave a confident ‘No’, which fortunately was not contradicted by the document.

‘This address on the licence is still valid, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘How will you be paying, sir? Cheque or credit card?’

He had thought this one through. Stealing George’s cheque book or using one of his credit cards was not on, as the details of the transaction would be documented and even George, in his current fuddled state, would smell a rat.

‘No, I’ll pay cash.’

‘Well, sir, we ask a fifty pound deposit, and then settle the difference when you return the car.’

Fine. He reached again for George’s wallet and had another ugly moment. He had drawn out sufficient cash for the deposit that morning, but had omitted to transfer the notes from his own wallet.

Nothing for it. The girl appeared to be engrossed in the form. Graham pulled out his wallet, extracted the fivers, and returned it to his pocket.

When he looked back, the girl was staring at him. Damn. He was drawing attention to himself, the last thing he wanted to do.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised with a weak laugh. ‘I’m just disorganised.’

The girl’s expression relaxed, as he counted out the notes on to the counter. ‘Oh, Mr. Brewer, when you pay in cash, we do require some other proof of identity apart from the driving licence.’

‘Yes, of course.’ He opened George Brewer’s wallet and reached into the credit card compartment. He slid something out and looked down at it.

It was a photograph of the late Mrs. Brewer. He felt himself colour as he shoved it back. ‘Damned things. So sticky.’

He managed to slide out an American Express card. ‘This O.K.?’

‘That’ll do nicely,’ she replied with a smile, in parody of the advertising campaign. She wrote down the number of the card.

Ten minutes later, Graham Marshall was driving a pale blue Vauxhall Chevette round Hyde Park Corner. He went down Park Lane and left the car in the underground car park. Then he caught the Tube back from Marble Arch to Oxford Circus.

Stella had just returned to her office from lunch and was brushing her hair when Graham came in, holding a piece of paper.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’ve just done a slight amendment on that report. Like to show it to George. Is he in?’

‘Still in the bar, I think. He’s in a bit of a state.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Lost his wallet.’

‘Oh no!’

‘He’s just getting so confused at the moment. I asked if he could have left it at home, but he said no, because he must have used his season on the train this morning.’

‘Hmm. Slipped out of his pocket under the desk perhaps?’

‘I’ve had a good look around, can’t see it.’

‘He really is falling apart.’

‘Yes, God knows what’ll happen to him when he actually does retire. He’ll just collapse.’

‘Afraid you may be right. One of the sort who’ll be dead within a year.’

‘Hmm.’ She indicated the paper. ‘Shall I take that?’

‘Don’t bother. I’ll put it on his desk for when he comes back.’

Inside the main office Graham looked around. The required image of executive efficiency didn’t leave many nooks or crannies in the furnishings where objects could lie unseen. He contemplated the waste-paper basket, but it was empty and the idea that the wallet had dropped in by chance stretched the imagination too far. He could put it in a drawer, but that also raised questions.

Mustn’t stay in there too long. To walk out to Stella holding the wallet, and saying he’d found it, linked him too closely to its disappearance.

Oh well, in George’s current state he was more likely to blame himself than imagine outside action. Graham shoved the wallet down between the cushion and the side of his boss’s chair.

Stella smiled as he came out.

‘See you tomorrow,’ said Graham, and winked.

The meal had gone well. He hadn’t overstretched his culinary abilities. Two large pieces of best fillet steak he could cope with. Grilled mushrooms he could cope with. Salads and cheesecake he had obtained from the local delicatessen.

The wine was a good bottle of Mouton Rothschild. Stella hadn’t commented on the fact that Graham drank only about a glass of it. Either she hadn’t noticed or she had put it down to a becoming awareness of responsibility in a man approaching a seduction. And she didn’t know that he had touched no alcohol in the pub where they had gone before the meal. She had seen him return from the bar twice with what looked like two large gin and tonics, not knowing that his drinks were untainted by gin. It wasn’t just that Graham wanted to keep his wits exceptionally sharp; he also had no wish to run the smallest risk of being breathalysed on this night of all nights.

Again, Stella had passed no comment on their going to the pub and on Graham’s chattiness to the bar staff and casual acquaintances there, although such behaviour did not conform with the desire for secrecy in their relationship which he had stressed earlier in the week. Probably, the anomaly did not worry her. She expected him still to be in an unpredictable emotional state, and was simply relieved to see him in apparent good humour.

He had talked during the meal of Merrily. He had made it clear to Stella that the marriage had long since died, and explained to her what confusion the reality of his wife’s death had unleashed in him. He felt shock and regret, of course, and yet these feelings could not swamp his knowledge that the marriage had not worked. Among all the other emotions, he felt a glimmer of hope, the possibility that, by a random act of fate, he had been given the chance to start his life again. The drift of this conversation, together with an adequate ration of soulful looks and hand-touchings, left no doubt about the way the evening was headed.

Graham knew he was taking a risk. To cultivate Stella so soon after Merrily’s death could be interpreted, retrospectively, as a motive for his wife’s murder. But the word ‘murder’ had never arisen, except in Lilian’s hysterical letter, and after his visit from Detective-Inspector Laker Graham felt complete confidence that the case was closed. Besides, once again he found he was getting a charge from the element of danger in what he was doing.

As Stella trapped the last crumb of cheesecake with her fork and popped it into her mouth, Graham rose from the table, saying. ‘Let’s go into the sitting-room. I’ll sort out some coffee.’

Stella stretched herself out on the sofa in an inviting way as Graham went across to the drinks cupboard. ‘Look, I got something specially for you. I know you like it.’

He held up a brand-new bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream.

‘Oh, you are an angel, Graham.’

He got out a glass and fumbled with the metal seal at the top of the bottle. ‘Damn. I don’t know who designs these things. They’re always impossible to open. I’ll get a knife in the kitchen. Black or white coffee?’

In the kitchen the coffee-machine dripped intermittently, at the end of its cycle. On the wall hung a collage picture of a girl, made from coloured seeds. It was something Emma had brought from school. For Graham it was an odd reminder that there had once been children in the house. That morning Henry and Emma had come with Charmian and collected their belongings. It seemed like years ago.