Acknowledgments Read Free Page A

indebtedness to Tom’s poacher friends, for supplying me with the wherewithal to bring this narrative to a suitable conclusion. For obvious reasons, I am unable to satisfy the curiosity of those undertaking the enquiry into our deaths to name them.
    But they know who they are.

Are You Sitting Comfortably?
    Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.
    Fair enough, Bernice, I admit it. I am a murderer. But don’t gloat too soon. By the time you read this, I’ll be out of your reach.
    You know, I can picture you in your favourite armchair. Just about to settle down to a hard evening’s viewing, weren’t you, when you padded out of the kitchen, cocoa cup in hand, and saw the envelope pushed under the door? The envelope containing these few typed sheets. You’re a creature of habit – the telly will still be on in the background, I’m sure of that – but keep reading, it’s important.
    I’m sorry about Stanley, truly I am. Poor, fussy Stanley. He wasn’t a bad man. For an estate agent, anyway. Though I never understood why he was the apple of your eye. Were you jealous of me? I don’t think so – I think you simply resented having a common daughter-in-law who’d been smart enough to marry the boss. Be honest, from day one you tried to turn him against me. All because I wore short skirts and wasn’t much of a typist.
    Why didn’t you accept Stanley had committed suicide? Everyone else did. Okay, the note he left didn’t explain why he couldn’t go on, but it
was
in his handwriting, spidery as ever. No wonder I had trouble with my typing. The coroner certainly sympathised with me. And had a good look at my legs into the bargain.
    But you simply wouldn’t let it alone, wouldn’t accept that one afternoon your precious son had put a noose round his neck and kicked away the chair. And in a terraced house on the wrong side of town, too. Yet people like Stanley, professional men, have to cope with all kinds of pressures. The coroner told me so the night after the inquest.
    I might have taken my share of the blame, might have tried to explain things to you, but you wouldn’t have understood. No chance of consolation, only hysterical rage. So I kept quiet, never dreaming you’d start sniffing round and accuse me of murder.
    The sergeant warned you I could prove I was down in London the day Stanley died. I said I’d been to the Ideal Home Exhibition and that ticket collector from Euston remembered my legs. The sergeant told me what you said to that – we were at a wine bar. He mimicked you saying, “Ideal Home? Ideal Home? She’s a slut, you oaf. Can’t tell one end of a dustpan from another.” But the sergeant agreed with me that dusting isn’t the most important thing for a young girl to master.
    And I am still young. That’s what makes this whole mess so sad. Such a waste.
    Sorry, I didn’t mean to be maudlin. I’ve always looked for the good things in life. Though for me everything always seems to boil down to men and to money. Mostly men. Stanley was where the money came in.
    When the police showed you the door, you might have got the message. But no – you had to hire a private detective. Does it surprise you that I know about him? He trailed me to the sauna one day and we got chatting. Later on he told me your theory. Quite ingenious, he thought.
    You were so sure I wanted rid of Stanley. I suppose you thought I had my eye on his stamp collection. And to be free for one of my fancy men, as you call them. (Though there wasn’t much fancy about the coroner or the sergeant, I can tell you that. I’m just too friendly for my own good sometimes.)
    I expect you got the idea from a thriller on the box. They ought to be more careful about the stuff they put out. You reckoned I’d got my lover to set up a rendezvous with Stanley, posing as a prospective purchaser while I was out of