"The Dead of Jericho" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dexter Colin)

Chapter Eight

It was not only Walters who slept uneasily that night, although for Charles Richards the causes of his long and restless wakefulness were far more anguished. The undertow of it all was what he saw as the imminent break-up of his marriage, and all because of that one careless, amateurish error on his own part. Why, oh why-an old campaigner like he!-when Celia had seen that long, blonde, curling hair on the back of his dark brown Jaeger cardigan, hadn't he shrugged her questions off, quite casually and uncaringly, instead of trying (as he had) to fabricate that laboured, unconvincing explanation? He remembered-kept on remembering-how Celia's face, for all its fortitude, had reflected then her sense of anger and of jealousy, her sense of betrayal and agonized inadequacy. And that hurt him-hurt him much more deeply than he could have imagined. In the distant past she might have guessed; in the recent past she must, so surely, have suspected; but now she knew-of that there now was little doubt.

And as he lay awake, he wondered how on earth he could ever cope with the qualms of his embering conscience. He could eat no breakfast when he got up the next morning, and after a cup of tea and a cigarette he experienced, as he sat alone at the kitchen table, a sense of helplessness that frightened him. His head ached and the print of The Times jumped giddily across his vision as he tried to distract his thoughts with events of some more cosmic implication. But other facts were facts as well: he was losing his hair, losing his teeth, losing whatever integrity he'd ever had as a civilised human being-and now he was losing his wife as well. He was drinking too heavily, smoking too addictively, fornicating far too frequently… Oh God, how he hated himself occasionally!

Saturday mornings were hardly the most productive periods in the company's activities, but there was always correspondence, occasionally an important phone call, and usually a few enquiries at the desk outside; and he had established the practice of going in himself, of requiring his personal secretary to join him, and of expecting his brother Conrad to put in a brief appearance, too, so that before adjourning for a midday drink together they could have the opportunity of discussing present progress and future plans.

On that Saturday morning, as often when he had no longer-ranging business commitments, Charles drove the five-minute journey to the centre of Abingdon in the Mini. The rain which had persisted through the previous few days had now cleared up, and the sky was a pale and cloudless blue. Not an umbrella day. Once seated in his office he called in his secretary and told her that he didn't wish to be disturbed unless it were absolutely necessary: he had, he said, some most important papers to consider.

For half an hour he sat there and did nothing, his chin resting on his left hand as he smoked one cigarette after another. That could be a start, though! He vowed earnestly that as soon as he'd finished his present packet (Glory be!-it was still almost full) he would pack up the wretched, dirty habit, thereby deferring, at a stroke, the horrid threats to heart and lungs, with the additional sweet benefits of less expense and (as he'd read) a greater sexual potency in bed. Yes! For a moment, as he lit another cigarette, he almost regretted that there were so many left. By lunchtime they'd be gone through, and that would be the time for his monumental sacrifice-yes, after he'd had a drink with Conrad. If Conrad were coming in that morning… He sank into further fathoms of self-pitying gloom and recrimination… He had tried so hard over the years. He had reformed and vowed to turn from his sinful ways as frequently as a regular recidivist at revivalist meetings, and the thought of some healing stream that could abound and bring, as it were, some water to the parched and withering roots of life was like the balm of hope and grace. Yet (he knew it) such hope was like the dew that dries so early with the morning sun. So often had his inner nature robbed him of his robe of honour that now he'd come to accept his weaknesses as quite incurable. So he safeguarded those weaknesses, eschewing all unnecessary risks, foregoing those earlier, casual liaisons, avoiding where he could the thickets of emotional involvement, playing the odds with infinitely greater caution, and almost persuading himself sometimes that in his own curious fashion he was even becoming a fraction more faithful to Celia. And one thing he knew: he would do anything not to hurt Celia. Well, almost anything.

At ten fifteen he rang his brother Conrad-Conrad, eighteen months younger than himself, not quite so paunchy, far more civilised, far more kindly, and by some genetic quirk a little greyer at the temples. The two of them had always been good friends, and their business association had invariably been co-operative and mutually profitable. On many occasions in the past Charles had needed to unbosom himself to his brother about some delicate and potentially damaging relationship, and on those occasions Conrad had always shown the same urbanity and understanding.

'You thinking of putting in any appearance today, Conrad? It's after ten, you know.'

'Twenty past, actually, and I'm catching the London train at eleven. Surprised you'd forgotten, Charles. After all, it was you who arranged the visit, wasn't it?'

'Of course, yes! Sorry! I must be getting senile.'

'We're all getting a little older day by day, old boy.'

'Conrad-er-I want you to do me a favour, if you will.'

'Yes?'

'It'll be the last one, I promise you.'

'Can I have that in writing?'

'I almost think you can, yes.'

'Something wrong?'

'Everything's wrong. But I can sort it out, I think-if you can help me. You see, I'd-I'd like an alibi for yesterday afternoon.'

'That's the second time this week!' (Was there an unwonted note of tetchiness in Conrad's voice?)

'I know. As I say, though, I promise it won't-'

'Where were we?'

'Er-shall we say we had a meeting with some prospective-'

'Whereabouts?'

'Er-High Wycombe, shall we say?'

'High Wycombe it shall be.'

'The Swedish contract, let's say.'

'Did I drive you there?'

'Er-yes. I-er-we-er-finished about six.'

'About six, I see.'

'This is all just in case, if you see what I mean. I'm sure Celia wouldn't want to go into details, but-'

'Understood, old boy. You can put your mind at rest.'

'Christ, I wish I could!'

'Look, Charles, I must fly. The train's-'

'Yes, of course. Have a good day and, Conrad-thanks! Thanks a million!'

Charles put down the phone, but almost immediately it rang, and his secretary informed him that there was a call on the outside line: personal and urgent.

'Hello? Charles Richards here. Can I help you?'

'Charles?' The voice was caressing and sensual. 'No need to sound quite so formal, darling.'

'I told you not to ring-' The irritation in his voice was obvious and genuine, but she interrupted him with easy unconcern.

'You're on your own, darling-I know that. Your secretary said so.'

Charles inhaled deeply. 'What do you want?'

'I want you, darling.'

'Look-'

'I just wanted to tell you that I had a call from Keith this morning. He's got to stay in South Africa until a week tomorrow. A week tomorrow! So I just wondered whether to put the electric blanket on for half past one or two o'clock, darling. That's all.'

'Look, Jenny. I-I can't see you today-you know that. It's impossible on Saturdays. I'm sorry, but-'

'Never mind, darling! Don't sound so cross about it. We can make it tomorrow. I was just hoping-'

'Look!'

'For God's sake stop saying "look"!'

'I'm sorry; but I can't see you again next week, Jenny. It's getting too risky. Yesterday-'

'What the hell is this?'

Charles felt a rising tide of despair engulfing him as he thought of her long, blonde, curling hair and the slope of her naked shoulders. 'Look, Jenny,' he said more softly, 'I can't explain now but-'

'Explain? What the hell is there to explain!'

'I can't tell you now.' He ground the words into the mouthpiece.

'When shall I see you then?' Her voice sounded brusque and indifferent now.

'I'll get in touch. Not next week, though. I just can't-'

But the line was suddenly dead.

As Charles sat back breathing heavily in his black leather swivel chair, he was conscious of a hard, constricting pain between his shoulder-blades, and he reached into a drawer for the Opas tablets. But the box was empty.

That day the Oxford Mail carried a page-two account (albeit a brief and belated one) of the death of Anne Scott at 9 Canal Reach, Jericho; and at various times in the day the account was noticed and read by some tens of thousands of people in the Oxford area, including the Murdoch family, George Jackson, Elsie Purvis, Conrad Richards, Gwendola Briggs, Detective Constable Walters, and Chief Inspector Morse. It was quite by chance that Charles Richards himself was also destined to read it. After three double Scotches at the White Swan, he had returned home to find the Rolls gone and a note from Celia saying that she had gone shopping in Oxford. 'Back about five-pork pie in the fridge.' And when she had returned home, she'd brought a copy of the Oxford Mail with her, throwing it down casually on the coffee table as Charles sat watching the football round-up.

The paper was folded over at page two.