Brian Freemantle - A Mind to Kill

‘ I don’t remember later. I went to sleep.’

‘Don’t you remember anything about later?’

‘ Vaguely that there was something against my face, hurting me. And a smell, of something strong… and then of choking.’

‘Was it brandy you smelled?’

‘ I don’t drink any spirit. Never have. I told you, it was only vague. It could have been brandy. It must have been, from what was said at the inquest. ’

Hall paused at the next question, held this time by the inanity of it, telling himself that nothing could be inane. ‘You were at your own inquest?’

Only Cox showed any reaction, shaking his head. There was no facial reaction.

‘ I wanted to know! But it was all lies! ’

‘I know some of them,’ promised Hall. ‘You’re left handed, aren’t you? All the stab wounds to Gerald’s body were from a left-handed person and Jennifer is right handed.’

‘ Yes. I’m left handed.’

‘Could you inject, with your right hand?’

‘ It wasn’t easy.’

‘Did Gerald ever inject you?’

‘ I didn’t like him doing it: I always thought it was a private thing. And he didn’t like doing it.’

‘But he could, in an emergency?’

‘ I’d taught him how. But he was clumsy. It hurt.’

‘That night you injected yourself in your right thigh?’

‘ Yes.’

‘Twice?’

‘ Yes.’

‘Not three times?’

‘ That was a lie, at the inquest! I didn’t administer the third, the most obvious one.’

‘What about the even more obvious one, the big puncture mark in your left arm?’

‘ No! I’ve never ever injected myself in my left arm. I couldn’t, obviously.’

‘Did Gerald do it?’

‘ He must have done. I was asleep. Unconscious.’

Hall pushed across in front of Jennifer the copies of the American enquiries that Humphrey Perry had faxed him. There’s your American medical records. And another affidavit from your family doctor, up until you moved to England. You were never hospitalized, for an insulin overdose, were you? You’ve never ever overdosed?’

‘ Never! It was another lie! ’

‘And you never had a drink problem, in America?’

‘ How could I have had, with diabetes as severe as mine? ’

Jennifer was slumping lower and lower over the table, pressed down again by exhaustion. Hall was drained, too, but wouldn’t stop. There was a momentum he didn’t want to lose. He was doing more than follow the basic legal precept of never asking a question to which he didn’t already know the answer. lle was intently listening, too, gauging his knowledge against Jane’s. He was sure he was ahead. Now he was about to go beyond the established precept: to grope out for answers he didn’t already know and needed to guess precisely the right questions to ask.

‘It’s all guesswork, though, isn’t it? You can’t prove Gerald killed you? It’s what the police would consider circumstantial.’

‘ More than circumstantial! Everything at the inquest was lies! The police would have investigated, if they’d known.’

‘Of course they would,’ agreed Hall. ‘And I believe they would have found enough for a murder charge, like I believe I have.’

‘ So where’s your argument? ’

‘Where’s yours, to prove Jennifer was part of it?’

‘ His mistake! What he said in his statement.’

It was too soon for any satisfaction. ‘Where, precisely, in his statement?’

‘ About the temazepam, which I know now he gave me instead of paracetamol: drugged me to make everything else possible. Read it! It says “I had it collected. ” Not “I collected it.” Had it collected, by her. By Jennifer Stone.’

He was there! thought Hall, euphorically. He’d guessed correctly – had Humphrey Perry agree with him – and now he had his defence. ‘“I had it collected”,’ Hall repeated yet again, returning the quote. ‘Not “I had it collected by Jennifer Stone.” You don’t know who collected it, do you?’

‘ Had to be her. She had the motive, the reason.’

‘You didn’t know about the affair with Jennifer Stone when you were alive, did you?’

‘ No.’

‘You went to bed that night wanting to make love to him. Thinking he loved you.’

‘ He did. Always did.’

The denial of the cheated wives isolated Hall, sadness mingling with the satisfaction: Jane refusing to admit losing to Jennifer and Jennifer refusing to admit losing to Rebecca. How many other lives of other women would Gerald Lomax have shattered if he hadn’t died? ‘And you hate Jennifer, don’t you? Hate her not because you think she had anything to do with your death but because she stole your husband from you.’

‘ Yes.’ For the first time there was a discernible emotion, the word hissing out in snake-like loathing.

‘Who’s Ian Halliday?’ demanded Hall, abruptly.

There wasn’t an immediate answer. Then, ‘ Gerald’s doctor.’

‘Never yours?’

‘ I spent most of my time in the country. I needed a local doctor. ’

‘Halliday never treated you?’

‘ No.’

‘Never prescribed for you?’

‘ No.’

‘Did you ever meet him?’

‘ No.’

Hall went to a paper in front of him, lifting it. ‘This is a signed statement, made to Humphrey Perry eight days ago by Doctor Ian Halliday, of Harley Street, London. It sets out the history of his medical association with Gerald Lomax. Part of it reads, “Two months before the death of his first wife – the actual date of the consultation was June 12 – Gerald Lomax-’

‘I wasn’t there!’ Jennifer’s interruption croaked out, the sound so strained and unexpected that everyone jumped. She gulped from her glass again, spilling some water down her chin. She didn’t bother to wipe it. ‘I wasn’t there!’ she repeated, stronger voice. ‘In June of the year Jane died… in fact throughout May and June and part of July

… I was on secondment to New York…’ She sniggered, disbelievingly. ‘It was there, that time, that I met Rebecca. Isn’t that ironic…? There’ll be proof…’

‘I have it,’ promised Hall, not wanting to lose control. He went back to Halliday’s statement. ‘It goes on, “Gerald Lomax complained of having difficulty in sleeping: blamed the pressure of work and asked for sleeping pills. I prescribed temazepam…’ Hall slowed, unnecessarily building up the moment. ‘… At the same time he said he was worried about his wife, who was a diabetic although not a patient of mine. He told me she was extremely careless about her medication: sometimes even forgot to bring it with her when she came up to their apartment in London…”’

It was impossible to tell whether the sound, a whimpering, groaning noise, was initiated by Jane or Jennifer.

Hall waited for the sound to become an identifiable word. When it didn’t he went back to the statement. Quoting again he said, ‘“She’d done it the previous week and they’d had to cancel everything and go back to Hampshire. He asked if I could issue a script for emergencies: something that he could keep in London if it happened again. I gave him a prescription for a month’s supply of ten-unit strength soluble insulin, the type he told me his wife used.”’

All three men were looking at Hall now, the awareness registering. Only Mason spoke. He said, ‘Good God!’ and then looked apologetically at the priest.

‘ He did it! I knew he did it.’

‘I haven’t finished yet,’ said the barrister, determined to maintain the pace. ‘Jennifer was in New York, all that time. And you knew it. You’ve told us that Gerald said she was away when he talked of her commission. The Enco-Corps records, which are part of this pile, prove it, in black and white: Jennifer Stone didn’t get back to England until July 9, just two weeks before your death. The prescription, for the temazepam and the insulin, was made up on June 13 by an independent chemist in Bury Street, in the City of London, named Hemels. Who still have the dispensing record, signed by the person who collected it…’ He slid a photocopy across the table. ‘The person who collected it was Elizabeth McIntyre, Gerald Lomax’s secretary…’ Hall stopped, dry-throated, all the water gone, desperately searching his mind for something – anything – he’d overlooked. Just the final accusation, he decided. ‘… You never thought Jennifer conspired in your murder… you wanted to kill her because she stole Gerald from you… that’s the truth, isn’t it Jane? The truth you didn’t want to admit!’