The Herring Seller's Apprentice (7 page)

Geraldine’s self-centredness too was not entirely straightforward. It was the selfishness of a small child who knows what she wants, and it was as easy to forgive as that of a small child. She wanted everything in the shop window. Nobody had ever quite found a way of explaining that this would not be possible.

More often than not she got her way, even when the odds seemed stacked against it. She had, for example, a phobia about dentists, and never visited one, to my knowledge, during her adult life. But her teeth were always immaculate. Whether this was just one of many examples of life’s unfairness or whether Geraldine simply took great care of her teeth, I cannot truly say – but an unexpected side of her character was her single-minded determination when she really wanted to achieve something. Perhaps that too was child-like in a sense.

She certainly had a child’s impulsiveness. There was little that so typified her approach to life as the way that she played chess. A careful build-up over half a dozen moves would be thrown away with one wild speculative dash across the board by her queen or one of her bishops. The inevitable losses of
matériel
that quickly followed would cause her to throw in rooks, knights and pawns in one glorious suicidal charge, each doomed piece being slammed down in a way that might have led a casual observer to believe that some grand plan lay behind the massacre and that the sole surviving bishop would miraculously achieve mate on its own. Then, when it was clear even to Geraldine that all was lost, she would sweep her fingers imperiously through the pieces, black and white, and demand another game. That the first game had not counted was taken as read. Geraldine always liked to start with a clean slate, however grubby she had made her previous one.

That was why none of the theories about Geraldine’s disappearance could be entirely discounted by anyone who knew her well. The whole plan to abscond, the hired car, the suicide note – even at a pinch Geraldine tottering around West Wittering in red Italian high-heeled shoes – could all have been things which, for a moment or two,
simply looked like a good idea.
But equally one could not assume that everything had been done on a rash impulse. It was important to remember that the positions that she threw away had first to be built up. She was capable, when she chose, of careful, meticulous calculation and even, as a last resort, of sustained hard work.

Had I wanted to play detectives, and I most certainly did not, the one major advantage that I would have had over the police was a detailed knowledge of the character of Geraldine Tressider. Only Rupert, arguably, might have had a better one. But neither of us seemed to feel inclined, for the moment, to share that knowledge with those who were busy investigating Geraldine’s murder.

On the day that Elsie took me for a stroll up to Cissbury Ring a further small part of the jigsaw was put in place. It was another phone call that placed this piece in my hands. This one was from Dickinson’s – my wife’s solicitors. They had at one time been mine and hers, but they handled the divorce on her behalf and relations between Tim Dickinson and myself had been somewhat distant ever since.

‘Ethelred,’ said the voice at the London end of the telephone. ‘Good to talk to you again, though I would have preferred it was under other circumstances. I guess it was a while since you and Geraldine had seen each other, but my condolences, nevertheless. It must be tough for you.’

‘Thank you for your condolences, Tim,’ I said. ‘How can I help you?’

‘It’s about Geraldine’s will … slightly odd, but you still seem to be her executor, at least in the latest version that we have.’

‘We made wills when we were still married. I guess that she never updated hers. She had no particular plans to die and so would not have given it a very high priority.’

‘Yes … well, you remain the executor and the main beneficiary. Not, I fear, that you stand to inherit a great deal. Geraldine involved me quite closely in her business dealings and pretty well everything she had was security for one loan or another. And the business …’

‘… was going down the plug hole.’

‘Yes, you could put it like that. I assume you don’t have a copy of the will?’

‘Any reason why you think I should?’

‘No, I suppose not. I’ll send you a photocopy. You’ll need to get access to the flat and so on; I’m not sure how.’

‘I have keys,’ I said. There was silence at the other end of the phone. ‘It used to be my flat too,’ I pointed out, ‘until you took it away from me.’

‘So it was,’ he said. ‘Now look, if we can be of any help in sorting out the estate or Geraldine’s business affairs, please let me know.’

‘Thank you. At a price, presumably.’

‘I’m a solicitor,’ he said. ‘Everything is at a price. Ha ha. You might, however, like to think about it. We had a call from Mr Rupert Mackinnon, by the way, your late wife’s … er … partner. He seemed to think that he should be the executor and indeed beneficiary of Geraldine’s will.’

‘Did he?’

‘I’m only repeating what he told us.’

‘I can see why he might think that.’

‘If there’s any doubt that there might be a later will somewhere naming Mr Mackinnon as executor we could always delay …’

‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s no other will and I’m the only executor.’

‘If you’re sure …’

‘Quite sure,’ I said.

Every wise man knows that there are occasions when it is inadvisable to tell his wife the entire truth. There are certain questions – ‘How much did you have to drink last night?’ ‘How much did that cost?’ ‘Your new secretary’s quite dishy, isn’t she?’ – that the alert husband will quickly realize may represent traps if answered in a frank and uninhibited fashion.

There is less need to dissemble to one’s agent, though many authors I know seem to have problems with the question, ‘Exactly when will the manuscript be ready?’

But one cannot lie to one’s readers, particularly when it comes to crime writing. There is a standard of honesty to be maintained that runs strangely contrary to the murky subject matter. Above all, the reader must be given a fair chance to identify the murderer by (say) three-quarters of the way through the book, and the murderer cannot be some obscure character glimpsed briefly in chapter seven and never mentioned again.

This need for honesty occasionally runs against realism. For example, some of my more villainous characters, who would sell their own grandmothers, prove strangely incapable of telling a direct lie. When, for example, in
Thieves’ Honour,
Ginger McVitie denies categorically that he paid Alf Jones to carry out a murder, the emphasis proves to be on the word ‘paid’: Jones has actually been
blackmailed
into carrying out the job. When my characters do tell a direct lie, they are usually offering the reader, in a quite generous fashion, the chance to spot an inconsistency between their statement and known facts.

This does not mean, of course, that one cannot lay endless trails of red herring in the path of the reader. As Geraldine had implied, these are, if not my stock in trade, at least a serviceable instrument that always sits in the toolbox of the crime writer. But they must be used with care to lead the reader off in a desired direction for a desired amount of time, not scattered randomly throughout the text. Nor are they the only tool in the box.

Clues must also obviously be provided: most openly, others half concealed in some throw-away line at the end of a section. I have sometimes been accused of providing too many clues too early on, but I am well aware that clues must be carefully doled out so that, while nobody can solve the mystery before the middle of the book, everyone has the chance of getting there before the final page.

But I do not necessarily treat all of my readers equally. I often, for example, throw in a line or two that will only be understandable to a tiny minority. I am by no means the only writer with such a penchant for private jokes. In
Enderby Outside
(page 94 of the Penguin edition) Anthony Burgess includes, with no attempt at explanation, a pun that could only be understood by a Malay speaker. Oddly enough, I was able to appreciate the joke, such as it is. During the first few months after Geraldine left me I found myself unable to write anything, other than one or two rather miserable and unpublishable poems. I was prescribed sleeping pills (most of which I still have stashed in the bathroom, for who knows what rainy day?) and I tried to forget other things by learning, first, Malay and then, later, some elementary Danish. I cannot say that either language has since been of immense benefit to me, but they both occupied my mind at a time when there was a large void to be occupied.

Finally, and more subtly, I like to include in my stories what I would describe as ‘pointers’. These offer parallels to the main story, and suggest avenues that might be explored. In
All on a Summer’s Day,
for example, where the interpretation of a date is critical to the plot, I have Sergeant Fairfax (in his capacity as an amateur historian) musing on a strange paradox: while the date of the first encounter between the Spanish Armada and the English fleet is beyond dispute, Spanish historians always give it as 31 July 1588, while their British counterparts more usually record it as 21 July. Why this anomaly for such a well-documented event? It is the sort of question, however, that I usually do not answer immediately, but leave hanging in the air for the reader to ponder. Occasionally I forget to explain it at all.

It did not surprise me that Elsie was in touch again soon after her visit to Findon. The reason for the call however was, ostensibly, routine literary business. A Danish publishing house wished to bring out a translation of
All on a Summer’s Day.

‘Can’t think why,’ said Elsie, with her usual tact. ‘I told them it was a crap book. Can’t give it away here. And Danish sales won’t bring in much money. Scarcely worth my time to set the deal up. But they seem to think that that gloomy, brooding sod Fairfax will appeal to the Nordic reader.’

‘I wonder what they will call it in Danish,’ I said.
‘Hr. Fairfax’ Fornemmelse for Datoer,
possibly.’

There was silence at the other end of the phone.

‘Sorry – just a little private joke,’ I said.

‘Save it for your editor at Gyldendal,’ she continued, after a short but meaningful silence. ‘They’re emailing me a contract. I assume the wonders of electronic communication are still unknown to you? I’ll post you a copy when it arrives.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m coming up to London anyway on Tuesday. I have some things to clear up as Geraldine’s executor.’

I knew it was a mistake to say this the moment the words had left my lips.

‘What are you planning to do exactly?’

‘Boring stuff. I need to look at the accounts of her business, check the flat, that sort of thing.’

‘A chance to look for clues, though.’

‘There will be no clues. This is dull stuff about the will.
Dull,
Elsie. Really uninteresting.’

‘The flat is in Barnsbury Street, isn’t it? I still have your old address somewhere. I’ll meet you there at eleven on Tuesday.’

‘Elsie …’

But the phone had already been put down at the other end.

Bugger.

When I moved from Islington to Sussex, it was a form of self-imposed exile. In part, it is true, there were financial considerations that obliged me to move. And there was a straightforward desire to put as many miles as I could between Geraldine and myself. But it was also an act of contrition – a recognition that I had failed to hold together the only marriage I had ever had and that I deserved to live in the outer darkness, only just this side of Worthing.

I had expected, on my first visit to Islington for many years, to see some changes. But the neat terraces of narrow but expensive Georgian houses still shone in the shafting sunshine, each front door painted in authentic heritage hues – Oxford blue, walnut brown, claret, Brunswick green – the quiet, confident colours of money. The rows of railings fronting both sides of the street were a glossy jet black. Autumn was sliding in unobtrusively: not a Findon riot of golds and reds, but the leaves of the carefully spaced cherry trees had on them the merest hint of burnt orange – one of that year’s fashionable colours.

Elsie was waiting for me at the street door, tapping her size 3 foot and raring to go. Today’s unsuitable outfit for the smaller woman proved to be a yellow trouser suit with large red checks, and I hoped that she would not ask me if it made her bottom look big.

‘Nice suit,’ I observed defensively, as she handed me my copy of the Gyldendal contract. ‘New?’

‘You took your sodding time,’ she replied, temporarily shelving the bottom question.

‘I had to come from Sussex. You only had to come from Hampstead.’

‘I’m a woman. I’m not supposed to be on time. You’re a man. You’re meant to be here to let me in. It’s a thing men do.’

‘The age of chivalry has been dead for some time. Since 1485 men have done pretty much as they pleased. Blame Henry VII.’

‘Don’t be a silly tosser, Tressider,’ Elsie observed. And I let her into the flat.

Once through the door, Elsie bustled round like a fat little terrier, almost literally sniffing the air for clues. ‘You take the sitting room, I’ll check the bedroom,’ she said.

‘You take whichever room you like,’ I said. ‘I need to get papers together for probate.’

She snorted at my lack of enthusiasm for what she considered to be the real business in hand, but waddled off to the bedroom, where for a while she could be heard opening cupboards and nosing through whatever least belonged to her.

I was happy to have a few minutes to myself. I quickly found the relevant files. They were still in the same drawer that they had occupied when I lived in the flat, and indeed many still had my handwriting on the cover. I extracted the recent statements from the file marked ‘BANK’. A swift glance revealed that there was little to give comfort to any of Geraldine’s creditors. I was also able to locate something else I needed, in an old chocolate box that had served for many years as a receptacle for spare keys. By the time Elsie emerged triumphantly from the bedroom and started her investigation of the sitting room, I had almost finished my own work.