Martin Edwards - The Arsenic Labyrinth

‘Ma’am!’

Billy had emerged from the shaft and was slipping out of his safety harness. In his face mask, goggles and nitrile gloves he looked like a creature from another world. But although Hannah could not make out his expression, his wave was unmistakably excited. Frantic, almost.

She broke into a run.

Guy felt sick, physically sick. It was as much as he could do not to vomit all over Sarah’s tired Dralon sofa. He wanted to weep and scream and bang his fists. This was so unfair, so fucking unfair. He found it impossible to believe what she was saying. Surely there must be some mistake? After all the care and affection he’d lavished upon her, to be repaid like this was more than a man could bear.

‘You’re furious with me!’ Sarah wailed. ‘That’s why I didn’t dare tell you before. I knew it would spoil everything. What sort of fellow — never mind a go-ahead business executive — would want to marry a woman with an addiction like mine?’

He was too upset even to be startled by the mention of marriage. Addiction was right. She didn’t just have a problem, she was off her head. How could anyone fritter away the thick end of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds in eighteen months? It was disgusting, it was insane. People committed murder for a pittance and here was a woman who had squandered a fortune, allowed the money to slip through her hands as if it were sand.

‘I need help,’ she said in a small voice. ‘I do realise.’

Well don’t look at me, I’m not a trick cyclist. You could have been wealthy, instead you’re a church mouse. Aversion therapy, that’s what you need. A hundred volts running through you next time you’re tempted to switch on the fucking computer. For two pins, I’d press the lever myself.

But he said none of this. He’d always had good manners. Take deep breaths, he told himself.

‘So … it’s all gone?’

‘Every last penny. Don puts money into my bank account on the first of each month and I’ve only got ninety pounds to tide me over till the end of February. There are bills to pay, you’ve no idea. I’ve never been brave enough to tell Don what I’ve been up to, he’d blow a gasket. Yesterday I had a final demand from the electric company, last week it was the council tax arrears. They’ve threatened to call in the bailiffs.’

Guy had never paid council tax in his life, but for a householder to default seemed rather shocking. He stuttered the obvious question.

‘W … why?’

Her face was ashen. ‘It was — so easy.’

What could he say? She’d thrown all her money away, gambling online. Poker, blackjack, you name it. These days no one needed to go to Las Vegas, they could ruin themselves in the comfort of their own homes. Sarah’s occasional winnings were paltry, her losses spiralling like Third World debt. She said she needed to escape from the humdrum world of everyday, and with that he could empathise. But you got away from it all by creating a fresh existence for yourself, not by frittering every last penny in internet casinos. Soon not even this horrid house would be hers. The bank would sell it to claw back the loans and she’d finish up living on welfare hand-outs. Psychiatric counselling would come courtesy of Social Services. What a fucking catastrophe.

She pressed his hand to her naked breast, presumably for comfort. He had seldom felt less aroused. ‘Guy, I’m so sorry. Do you despise me now I’ve let you into my guilty secret?’

‘It’s OK,’ he muttered, because he couldn’t bring himself to say what he was thinking. He hated being unkind, even when someone deserved it. ‘I was — shocked, that’s all.’

‘I thought — if the company gives you some severance pay, perhaps I could borrow a few pounds until I get myself sorted. Of course, I’ll reimburse you with interest.’

And where do you think you’ll find the money to repay me? You must be living on a different planet.

‘I don’t suppose you can understand me at all?’

His voice was hoarse. ‘One thing I do know, Sarah. If you spend your life gambling, you need to win more often than you lose.’

‘So, Chief Inspector, the good news or the bad news?’

Billy might be breathless, but he couldn’t help playing the showman. One of the perks of his job.

‘Good news first. I don’t hear it that often.’

‘Your tip-off was spot on. The body at the bottom of the shaft — or what’s left of it — is clad in a jacket and boots that match the description of clothing that disappeared along with Emma Bestwick.’

Hannah had expected nothing else. All the same, she felt dizzy with relief. The long wait was over. Sid Thornicroft had guessed wrong, the poor woman hadn’t done a runner. Her body had been left here to rot for all those years. At last they’d be able to give her a decent burial, and set about finding whoever was responsible for interring her beneath the ruins of the weird poison maze.

‘OK, break the bad news to me gently.’

Billy coughed. ‘We thought while we were at it, we ought to take a look along the tunnel that links with the far shaft. See if we could find a weapon or anything else that might cast light on how she came to be down there.’

‘Yeah, thanks. Any joy?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that we found a rusty old knife, a kitchen bread knife. The stains on the blade look like blood.’

‘You think she was killed with it?’

‘Unlikely, ma’am. You see, the knife is at the bottom of the other shaft, thirty yards away from Emma Bestwick’s remains.’

She stared at him. ‘How come?’

‘It’s lying next to a second body.’

I may seem an unlikely person to have committed a perfect murder, and yet my crime never attracted a breath of suspicion. I hope to have lived a useful life, but now my days are drawing to a close, I can say this with certainty: I regret nothing. No, not even the second death, so many years after the first.

As I swung the knife into his breast, destroying that arrogant sneer forever, I felt as though jolted by an electric shock. Not a current of remorse, but jubilation. How extraordinary. A single blow was all it took, to change my life and end his. When he collapsed to the ground, I stood over him, clutching the haft tight, waiting for his body to twitch, ready to do what was necessary.

He is not moving. It is over.

My breathing is harsh, but I feel light-headed, as though I have consumed a bottle of wine. For a few moments I have a fleeting sense of immortality. I have exercised the power of life and death. I have revenged myself for his betrayal. He is dead, but I shall live on.

And then, I hear a loosening of rubble in the rocks above me. Followed by something worse, far worse. A suppressed cough, little more than a clearing of the throat, yet enough to induce paralysis.

I am not alone.

Desperate ills called for desperate remedies. Guy regarded himself as a man of his word, yet sometimes you had no choice but to break a promise. Besides, he’d kept to his bargain for long enough. Nothing was forever.

Including, of course, his sojourn at the Coniston Glimpse. It was a tribute to his strength of character that he’d not throttled Sarah, but it was also convenient. He needed a roof over his head until he travelled on, and he couldn’t bank on finding another landlady who didn’t expect rent. When he’d calmed down enough to think straight, he’d persuaded Sarah to ask her ex-husband for a loan on the pretext of needing to buy a new washing machine. Excellent advice. By a lucky chance she’d bumped into Don in the village early that morning. He was out buying a pricey Valentine’s present for his current wife and a combination of guilt and embarrassment prompted him to cough up without demur. He’d even taken her to the cash till and handed over a thick wad of notes.