My New Year’s resolution is to murder a man I’ve never met.
This is no sudden decision. For almost six months it’s brewed in my mind. Ever since I lost my beloved Alicia.
Since I was a boy of ten, I have celebrated each new year by making a resolution. Reticent by nature, and fearful of failure, I’ve never mentioned this to a soul, but I’ve pursued each aim with a zeal that would startle those around me. Other people see me as meek, mild-mannered, and middle-aged, the very model of a modern chartered accountant. My reputation for reliability and attention to detail has enabled me to make a success of my practice, but nobody would think of me as remorseless. Respectable, yes. To my core.
My previous resolutions have, I must admit, lacked daring. To commit oneself to abstaining from alcohol or losing half a stone in weight is a very different kettle of fish from deciding to murder a fellow human being.
I cannot confide in a living soul. That goes without saying. Yet my private thoughts demand an outlet. I don’t underestimate the obstacles that lie ahead. If not recorded in black and white, my plans might remain pipe dreams. Writing about them somehow brings them alive.
‘You’re a creature of habit,’ Alicia liked to say, tossing her lovely fair curls.
She knew me so well. Whenever I encounter a difficulty, I find it helps to order my thoughts by writing them down. This method suits my temperament and has helped me to unravel knotty problems, typically concerning my clients’ difficulties with the Inland Revenue. My new goal is by far the most ambitious and extraordinary I have ever attempted. Hence the need for this journal. I shall destroy it as soon as the deed is done. In the meantime, the chances of anybody laying their hands on it are nil.
The first challenge is this. The man I wish to kill is called Louis Carson. I do not, however, know where he lives or what he looks like. In truth, I know nothing about him.
Except that he deserves to die.
I’m a God-fearing man.
By instinct, I am law-abiding. My only experience of criminality is another old habit, of driving at speeds in excess of the pitiful maximum prescribed by the Motor Car Act of 1903. How ironic that the first of this month, which marked my momentous New Year’s resolution, also saw the repeal of that absurd and widely flouted statute. From now on, I am no longer guilty of breaking the law when I drive at more than twenty miles per hour. Before the year is out, however, I shall have committed a premeditated murder.
Is it strange that my conscience scarcely troubles me? I don’t think so. I am filled with a sense of purpose, reinforced by rereading what I wrote on New Year’s Day. I have no doubt that I am doing the right thing. Ridding the world of wickedness.
All I need to do is find Carson and then devise a plan for his elimination that does not expose me to the risk of arrest. A tall order? Perhaps, but there is no stopping me. Losing Alicia numbed me. My life lost any sense of purpose. Now, I detect a glimmer of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. If I can remove Louis Carson, I may be able to move forward. I have no wish to be treated as a common criminal or to finish up on the gallows. True justice doesn’t require my death. It requires the elimination of Louis Carson.
How to murder a man in such a way that I never become a suspect? I’ve consulted several volumes of Notable British Trials in the British Museum so as to gain an understanding of mistakes commonly made in cases of premeditated homicide. I find it depressing to study the blunders of even the most intelligent of killers. Crippen’s panic, for instance, at a moment when he had come within an ace of persuading the police that his wife was still alive!
I console myself with the reflection that the annals of crime concern cases where the perpetrator was identified and apprehended. I have no known link with Louis Carson and this is a huge advantage which I shall exploit to the full.
Even as I write these words, the blurred outlines of an answer to my question begin to form through the mist in my mind. I must create a false identity. Someone who comes into being solely for the purpose of killing Louis Carson and then disappears without a trace.
I must become someone else.
My initial preparations are complete. It has taken little more than two months for me to embark upon a double life.
To my surprise, I’ve found the whole business exhilarating. Professional life in Guildford offers little scope for the imagination to roam. I cannot deny there have been occasions when, in a fit of exasperation, even my dear Alicia described me as dull or boring. These characteristics merely reflect the nature of my work. Books need to balance and the demands of double-entry accounting discourage a spirit of adventure. I’m neither as humourless nor as uncultured as Alicia, during our infrequent but dispiriting arguments, was wont to suggest.
In my youth I dabbled in amateur theatricals, receiving considerable encouragement from a kindly teacher. An unfortunate incident involving one of my fellow pupils led to the master’s sudden departure from the school, and thereafter I had few opportunities to develop my thespian talents. My New Year’s resolution allows me to rediscover the pleasures of playing a part.
I have always found the Irish accent mellifluous and easy to imitate. My second Christian name happens to be Seamus, thanks to a flight of fancy on the part of dear Mamma, who once visited the Emerald Isle. I chose the surname Doyle because I’ve always enjoyed the late Sir Arthur’s stories; not so much the detective stories as the novels of long ago, chivalrous times such as The White Company.
The most convincing lies are seasoned with truth. To pose as garage hand or a retired county cricketer, for instance, would be an act of folly. Much as I love cars and the summer game, I would struggle to maintain the charade for any extended period of time. I am a professional man and it makes no sense to pretend otherwise. Given that my history of ill-health has caused me to study innumerable medical dictionaries, pretending to be a doctor, recently retired and back from foreign climes, should present few problems.
So Mr Basil Palmer has become Dr Seamus Doyle, late of South Africa and fifty-five years old. Adding to my age was easier than subtracting a few years; even dear Alicia occasionally accused me of becoming old before my time. Dr Doyle has a mild stoop and is never seen without large tortoiseshell spectacles with round tinted glass and a nose-piece lined with cork for comfort. In a radical departure from a three-piece suit and bowler hat, Dr Doyle dresses nattily – the colonial influence – and has a taste for garish bow ties. His headwear alternates between a tweed trilby and, on sunny days, a panama. He smokes an occasional Havana, even though it makes him cough.
As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Dr Doyle is comfortably off, without being so rich as to attract unwanted attention. He has deposited healthy amounts of cash in his recently opened account with the National Provincial Bank and has taken rooms in Gower Street.
Dr Doyle is, despite his bow ties, inconspicuous and often absent from London. Nobody has taken any notice of him at all while he prepares the ground for committing a perfect murder.
To find Carson, I need help. Reluctant as I am to involve others in my scheme, I have no choice. The man could be anywhere, doing anything.
The solution is to engage the services of an enquiry agent. In the normal course of events I would give a wide berth to such individuals, who are so often mixed up in the seamy business of procuring evidence for the divorce courts. Luckily, I know just the man.
I came across his name eighteen months ago. One of my clients is a prosperous merchant of timber and building supplies, and in conducting the annual audit of the business, I discovered discrepancies between the figures for incoming and outgoing stock. The scale of losses was putting the future of the business in jeopardy. The managing director, a hard-bitten fellow rather ironically named Cheetham, called in a private investigator from London. The man soon concluded that the thefts were an ‘inside job’ of some sophistication. I never met the detective, but I saw his reports, which were concise yet meticulous in matters of detail.
‘Fellow used to be a copper,’ Cheetham told me when I expressed my approval of the thoroughness of the investigation. ‘Not sure why he left Scotland Yard – some funny business, I heard – but he was recommended to me as the best man for the job.’
McAtee, the man in question, proposed that he should apply for a job with the firm as a store hand. Cheetham duly recruited him and within a fortnight, he had pinpointed the long-serving yard foreman and the company secretary as co-conspirators. His comprehensive dossiers enabled Cheetham to press charges and the business was saved. His fee was hefty, but he more than earned it.
Tracing Louis Carson is unlikely to prove straightforward. In any event, I need to be careful. If people remember me making enquiries about him, it might have serious repercussions. Far better to use an intermediary to discover his present whereabouts. I never met Joseph McAtee, but all the evidence suggests that he is persistent, well organised, and discreet. In other words, the right man for the job.
Today saw the first setback in my quest for justice.
I called McAtee this morning, from a public telephone booth. He answered cheerily and confirmed that he was available to accept new instructions, but as I began to explain what I wanted, he cut me short.
‘Yes, yes, Dr Doyle, that’s all well and good. But I don’t take on new clients by phone. You need to come in to see me.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Absolutely essential. Can we arrange an appointment so you can tell me all about this little job of yours? Does next Monday morning suit?’
‘It isn’t very convenient. Surely if I give you…’
‘A personal briefing is vital, I’m afraid.’ Beneath the jollity, there was evidently an unbending will. ‘Much easier to discuss these things face to face. I’m sure you see the sense of that, Doctor. Better to examine the patient than listen to an account of symptoms on the blower, eh?’
The analogy failed to impress me. ‘I thought that if I explained everything fully and sent a payment on account of costs to be incurred…’
‘Sorry, Doctor, no can do. You see, you’ll want to be satisfied of my bona fides…’
‘Oh, I have no concerns on that score. You come highly recommended.’
‘Very kind of somebody. May I ask who pointed you in my direction?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say. It was a sensitive affair and your name was given to me in strict confidence. Indeed my friend was impressed with your own discretion.’
‘Delighted to hear it. Now, as I was saying, when a client engages someone in my line, what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, if you follow my meaning.’
‘Actually, I’m not…’
‘These things cut both ways,’ he said briskly. ‘You’re placing your faith in me. By the same token, I need to be satisfied that everything is open and above board.’
‘Please. I can assure you…’
‘No offence intended, Doctor, don’t get the wrong end of the stick.’ A slight pause. ‘But I need to see the cut of a client’s jib, if you’ll pardon the expression. You’ve gathered that I have a reputation, and I place a high value on it.’
Given my understanding that McAtee had left the police under a cloud, I thought this was rich, but plainly he was in no mood to relent.
‘Very well.’ I drew in a breath. ‘If you will… allow me a little time to think about it.’
‘Excellent, Doctor. I shall wait to hear from you.’
Without more ado, he put down the phone.
So I am left in a quandary. I am nervous about revealing myself to an experienced detective. Will his keen eyes see through my subterfuge? I have some confidence in my ability to carry off my impersonation of an Irish medical man, but there is another reason for concern. The fewer people who can connect Dr Seamus Doyle with Louis Carson, the better.
But, as Cheetham said, this man McAtee is at the head of his peculiar profession. Can I afford not to hire his services?
I have made up my mind. Life is never free of risk and it is self-deception to believe otherwise. Even if McAtee never met me, he would be aware that I’d engaged him to hunt Carson down.
The more I think about it, the more my confidence grows. If I can persuade an experienced detective to believe in the existence of Dr Seamus Doyle, I will have passed my first serious test with flying colours. It is one thing to fool a bank clerk or a landlady, quite another to deceive a man such as Joseph McAtee.
I shall telephone him later today to arrange a meeting.
Tonight I am tired but relishing the heady delights of having played a part to – if not perfection, then to the very limits of my ability.
I travelled to London last night, assuming the guise of Dr Doyle for an evening meal in Bloomsbury before spending the night in Gower Street in readiness for my appointment at ten o’clock the next morning.
McAtee’s office is on the first floor of a scruffy building tucked away in a side street near King’s Cross. He has no secretary, the battered Underwood on his desk indicating that he types his reports himself.
In person, he dwarfs me. Broad-shouldered and balding, he has a ready smile and pumped my hand with such vigour that I feared he would break a bone. He is a man of fifty and quite unlike the sleuth-hound of my imagining. The resemblance to a genial grocer is so marked that I half expected him to urge me to buy some cauliflowers.
‘Good of you to make the time to come over, Doctor,’ he said, as if I’d done him a special favour rather than acceding to a condition he’d imposed. ‘I’m sure you’re a busy man. Patients to see and drugs to dispense?’
The wooden chair he’d ushered me into was as unsteady as it was uncomfortable. I felt at a disadvantage, as if at any moment it might give way beneath me.
‘I’m retired,’ I said briefly. ‘I returned to Britain recently after a long time in South Africa.’
‘Marvellous country!’ He gave me a searching look. ‘The Cape, was it?’
My heart sank. ‘You’re familiar with that part of the world?’
He beamed. ‘Sad to say, Doctor, I don’t have much time for travelling. Maybe one of these days, eh? By comparison you are quite a globetrotter. Which part of Ireland are you from, may I ask?’
‘I was born in Wexford. But let me get right to the point. I need you to trace someone for me. Is that the kind of work you undertake?’
‘Certainly, certainly.’ He rubbed his hands, his expression gleeful. ‘This isn’t a divorce matter, then?’
I shook my head.
‘Splendid, a change is as good as a rest! I get a lot of business in connection with unhappy marriages and, between you and me, it can become a trifle… samey. Makes me glad I never tied the knot myself. May I ask a question before we proceed? What if the individual you seek does not wish to be found?’
For all the bland amiability of his words, I detected a sharpness in his pale blue eyes as he studied my reaction.
I let out a sigh. ‘I’m a bachelor and not in the best of health. After so many years out of the country, I’ve lost touch with the people I knew. I have no close family left and given my uncertain health, it’s only sensible to consider making a will. There are a number of people I’d like to consider as heirs. One of them is the man I’d like you to find. The son of a friend of mine who once did me a great kindness.’
McAtee beamed. ‘I’m sure you’re good for many years to come, Doctor!’
I tried to look wistful. ‘If only I shared your confidence. But that is immaterial. The question is whether you are able to trace Louis Carson.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid. I didn’t know his father well, which made me all the more grateful for his generosity. He and his wife died when Louis was still quite young. I never met the boy and can’t even give you a description. I heard a vague rumour once that he’d had a difficult time after losing his parents. Got into bad company, more than likely. So he may be down on his luck and in desperate need of financial help. On the other hand, he may be highly respectable and making a success of his life. All I can really tell you is that about nine months ago, he was in Brighton.’
‘And how do you know that?’
‘He sent a postcard to a mutual friend, who hadn’t heard of him for many a year. It arrived out of the blue last June. My understanding is that Louis wasn’t enjoying a holiday at the seaside, he was actually living in the town. More than that, I’m afraid, I cannot say.’
McAtee rubbed his chin. ‘Not much to go on, Doctor.’
I ventured a smile. ‘Now you understand why I need to engage your services.’
‘Well, what about this mutual friend? He might be able to shed more light…’
‘Impossible,’ I interrupted. ‘He died recently, while travelling abroad.’
‘Pity.’ McAtee rubbed his nose.
‘I doubt he could have helped. By the way, I should emphasise that I don’t want Louis Carson to become aware of the enquiries I’m making.’
‘No?’
‘Definitely not.’ I paused. ‘If, for instance, I find that he is disreputable, I should not wish to mention him in my will.’
‘Very well, that’s understood. What sort of age is he?’
This was one of the questions I’d dreaded, because I simply had no idea. I gave a heavy sigh.
‘I’m afraid I’m far from sure.’
‘Rough idea?’
‘Perhaps late thirties,’ I said, hoping that my guesswork wasn’t absurdly inaccurate, ‘but quite possibly older than that. Forty-plus. I’m sorry to be so vague.’
McAtee raised his eyebrows. ‘Not easy to make bricks without straw, Doctor.’
The time had come for me to take a risk. ‘Of course, if you feel that the task is beyond you, I’ll understand.’
McAtee leaned across his desk. ‘So you want me to find one Louis Carson, last heard of in Brighton nine months ago? You don’t know the man’s age or what he looks like?’
‘When you put it like that,’ I said, risking a rueful smile, ‘it does sound as if I’m asking the impossible.’
‘One thing you learn in this business, Doctor, is that nothing is impossible.’ He relaxed back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Very well, then. Shall we discuss terms?’
And that was that. He asked no more awkward questions and was no doubt happy to accept a sum on account of his fee and expenses that was as much as, in these depressed times, many working men can earn in half a year.
‘When can I expect to hear from you?’ I asked as I was leaving. ‘I am away from home a good deal at present, but you have my address for correspondence.’
‘I’ll report once a fortnight,’ he said. ‘Sooner, if I turn anything up.’
With that, I made good my escape.
McAtee has repaid my faith – and my sizeable investment – in him. This afternoon I arrived at Gower Street and found a letter waiting for me. He said he believed he had located the man I sought and would be glad to supply further information if I called into his office at my convenience.
I preferred to telephone. Our first meeting had gone as well as I could have hoped, but I did not want to risk subjecting myself to his scrutiny once again. What if I made the mistake of revealing my true feelings about Louis Carson?
Fortunately, McAtee did not insist on my making another appointment to see him in person.
‘You’re in luck, Doctor,’ he said breezily. ‘You gave me a haystack the size of St Paul’s Cathedral, but I finally managed to hunt down your lost needle.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. You were right, by the by.’
‘About what?’ I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice.
‘Carson’s age. He’s forty.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘The details will be in my report, but you may like to know that he’s married.’
‘Really?’ Somehow I’d imagined Carson as a single man.
‘There are no children, if that’s a complication that bothers you.’ I shook my head. ‘His wife’s name is Pearl. She’s worked in shops and as a nurse, but mostly she’s been in service.’
I could only feel pity for the woman. ‘You will let me have a full description of him? I’d prefer to get a clear picture of the fellow in my mind before I approach him.’
‘I can do better than that. You can have a snapshot I took when I tracked him down. Don’t worry, he didn’t see me.’ He paused. ‘If you’re still considering the possibility of making him your heir, you may want to know that he doesn’t have a criminal record. Neither does his wife.’
I gripped the receiver so hard that it hurt. ‘Is that so?’
‘And he’s not short of a few bob. To say the very least.’
I made a non-committal noise and waited. I had the impression that McAtee was keen to assess my reaction to what he said, and I was determined to give nothing away.
‘Yes, he’s acquired some business interests in the north of England. Buyer’s market these days, of course, and he’s taking full advantage.’
Of course he has, I thought grimly. Carson specialises in taking advantage of people.
‘So he is no longer in Brighton?’
‘Correct. That didn’t half complicate the business of tracing him, believe me. But this is your man, as sure as eggs is eggs.’
‘How confident are you?’
‘I’d stake my life on it.’ He sounded affronted, as if I’d cast doubt on his professional integrity. ‘I’ve checked exhaustively; that’s why my investigation took a good while. Nobody else by the name of Louis Carson has lived in Brighton for the past three years.’
‘Where is he now?’
We were coming to the crunch. I had a vague fear that Carson might be living the high life in the south of France or on Capri.
‘Still living by the seaside. His adopted home has become a fashionable watering hole.’
‘He’s moved there permanently?’
‘Yes, he’s gone into partnership with the fellow who built the resort and has taken charge of the main hotel in town. I took his picture from a shelter as he walked by. He was strolling along the cliffs as if he owned them. Maybe he soon will.’
‘So where exactly is this place?’
‘Lancashire.’ McAtee made it sound as remote as the North Pole. ‘Name of Hemlock Bay.’