Rupert Thomson - Death of a Murderer

Billy slowly opened his car door and got out.

“Still a constable, I see,” Newman said.

Billy locked the door, then straightened up.

Newman was standing on the narrow strip of grass next to the kerb, hands still in his pockets. “Failed our sergeant’s exam, did we?”

“I failed that before I even met you,” Billy said.

Newman shook his head.

Billy glanced at the house. It was after ten o’clock at night, but there wasn’t a light on anywhere. “No one here,” he said, half to himself.

“No.” Newman’s expression was expectant, sly, even faintly humorous, as if Billy was about to deliver the punchline to a joke.

“Well, you’d better come in, I suppose,” Billy said eventually.

Newman had a word with his driver, then followed Billy up the short drive. At the front door Billy paused, fumbling in his pocket for his keys.

Once through into the hall, he stood still for a moment, listening. When he came home from work, he usually walked in on some kind of disaster; it was almost never calm or tidy. He wondered if Newman could sense that. He was aware of the man behind him, alert, quiet, mocking. Like an assassin.

“Sue?” His voice sounded thin, plaintive, and he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth.

There was no reply.

He was angry with her for not being home to deal with her father — but perhaps she hadn’t known he was coming. It was probably Newman’s style to spring surprises.

He showed Newman into the lounge. Newman picked up a framed photograph of Emma as a one-year-old, and then put it down again almost immediately.

“Your granddaughter,” Billy said.

Newman looked at him steadily, but didn’t speak. Billy watched Newman’s gaze shift to the wedding pictures on the sideboard. There was Billy, with his top hat and his toothy smile— I can’t believe my luck —and there was Sue, in cream satin, a bunch of white and yellow flowers held at waist-level. She had the flushed, exultant look of somebody who had been proved right. I always knew this day would come, and now it has. Billy wondered how Newman had felt about not having been invited.

Newman turned and sat down on the sofa, one arm stretched along the back. “So where’s Sue?”

Like most successful people, he gave you the feeling that you lived too slowly, without sufficient clarity or focus. He didn’t waste any time on subjects that didn’t interest him.

“I’ve no idea,” Billy said. “Do you want to wait?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Would you like something to drink?”

“What have you got?”

“Tea, coffee. Beer.” Billy moved towards the kitchen. “I’m going to have a beer.”

“I’ll have beer too.”

Billy fetched two cans of Heineken from the fridge, then walked back into the lounge and handed one of them to Newman.

“Do you have a glass?” Newman said.

Billy hesitated, then went out to the kitchen again. The cupboard where the glasses were kept was empty — they would be in the dishwasher, which Sue never ran until last thing at night — so he chose a plastic beaker with Pooh and Piglet on the side. One of Emma’s. He took it into the lounge and handed it to Newman. Newman looked at the beaker, and Billy saw him decide not to comment. Opening his beer, Billy dropped heavily into the armchair by the fire. It had been a long day: a wife beaten by her husband, a stolen motorbike, two drunk builders fighting in a pub…

“I thought your house might look a bit like this,” Newman said after a while.

“Not what you’re used to, I imagine.”

Newman laughed unpleasantly.

Lose your temper, and you lose, Billy thought. It was a lesson he had learned over the years. Another lesson: don’t say any more than you have to. He raised his can to his lips and drank.

“Actually, to be honest,” Newman said, “I thought it might be even worse. You know, more depressing…”

Through the closed window Billy heard the clank of a bicycle. That would be Harry Parsons, riding home from the allotments. Harry had recovered from the fall he’d had not long after Billy and Sue moved in, and he was up there most days, whatever the weather. The last time they had spoken, Harry had told him that he was thinking of growing delphiniums. A beautiful flower, Harry had said. Beautiful colour. Not blue, but not purple either. Somewhere in between.

“I’m sure you do your best,” Newman was saying. “It’s just that she wants more from life. More than you can offer, anyway.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She didn’t have to. I’m her father.”

“You left her when she was thirteen.”

“I left her mother.”

Billy shrugged. “Same thing.”

Newman watched him from the sofa.

“You know, when I first knew Sue,” Billy said, “she never mentioned you at all. I used to think her father must be dead. He must have died when she was very young, I thought — or maybe he died before she was even born—”

“Are they teaching you psychology now? Is that what they’re teaching on those training courses?” Newman studied his beer. He still hadn’t taken so much as a sip.

In that moment, a curious vibration went through Billy, a sort of flutter or crackle, as though his body were full of tiny people clapping. He had just realised that Newman was a man he could kill, and he would feel no qualms about it. He could use the onyx clock Sue’s mother had given them when they got married. He could see Newman on the carpet, one arm trapped beneath his body, the other pointing at the door. Battered to death with a present from his ex-wife. There was a nice symmetry to that.

“I’m not sure I get the joke,” Newman said.

This would be one of the very few times that Billy managed to turn the tables on Sue’s father, and he wanted to make it last. No qualms, he thought, and no remorse. None whatsoever.

Standing up, he stepped over to the mantelpiece and adjusted the position of the clock, not because it needed adjusting, but because he wanted to feel the weight of it, the heft. Oh, this would do, he said to himself. This would be perfect.

Not exactly the perfect murder, though.

As he put the clock down and turned away, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that hung opposite the fireplace. For several seconds he stood quite still, struck by a thought he’d never had before. In Ipswich there was a man — a local character — who’d had his entire face tattooed in an attempt to stop himself committing crimes. Billy would see him sometimes, on Westgate Street or Norwich Road, his eyes appearing to stare out from behind a jungle of Celtic swirls and flourishes. Granted the man was mentally ill, but the measure did have a certain logic to it. If he ever broke the law, there would be no problem identifying the culprit. It was the bloke with the tattoos. He did it. Looking at himself in the mirror, it occurred to Billy that he might have joined the police for the same reason, to prevent himself from doing wrong. Not to protect other people, then, but to protect himself. His uniform was a sane version of the tattooed face. It hadn’t worked, though, had it? Even with his uniform on, he had done things he shouldn’t have; if anything, in fact, the uniform had helped. He thought of Venetia’s father, and the memory came to him so forcefully that the wet-hay smell of the old man’s breath seemed present in the room.

“You know, a few years ago—” Billy checked himself. This wasn’t something he should ever talk about, and least of all with Newman listening.

“A few years ago what?” Newman said softly.

Billy shook his head. “Another drink?”

Newman looked at his plastic beaker. “I’ve got plenty.”

When Billy returned from the kitchen with a second beer, he went and stood by the window. He saw Newman’s chauffeur fold a newspaper and place it on the dashboard. He wondered how the chauffeur felt about his employer. He imagined walking outside and telling him Newman was dead. I killed him. Just now. With a clock. And the chauffeur nodding, smiling, maybe even patting him on the back—