It wasn’t as straightforward as him ‘reverting to type’, to use that somewhat hackneyed psychological concept. If he wanted to rationalise it, then perhaps just ‘making up for lost time’ was nearer the mark, along with facing up to the frustrations consequent on his having a criminal record and life-sentence for murder. Generally speaking, Mark appreciated structure and clear planning over spontaneity and impulsivity; however, he was well aware that it wasn’t always easy to categorise everything that neatly, and sometimes structures needed circumventing. The circumstances had been different when he had to do everything himself and keep Justine out of it. For one thing, Gemma was more reliable: she wasn’t just a fling or even a paramour, they were a proper couple, they’d been living together for the best part of a year. More to the point, they were doing this together, she was right behind him – almost encouraging him, when he thought about it. In fact, it was unlikely he would be where he was today if Gemma hadn’t sowed the seeds.
Mark was sitting in the oak panelled reading room of Chichester Library. He’d decided to spend the day doing some research and planning. They had driven down from Petworth that morning and he had dropped Gemma off at her office in Littlehampton just under fifteen miles away, arranging to pick her up later. Even though she had been getting increasingly fed up with her job, Gemma had decided to carry on for a few more months at least, to see how things panned out with Mark and her mother before making any final decisions. Mark’s intention was to read up on suspicious deaths and in particular poisonings that had taken place over the years since he’d been given his prison sentence. Even though they hadn’t really thought things through in any great detail, he felt the need to push on with what he now felt of as their plan. Amongst other things he wanted to check out what advances there might have been in forensics and detection. However, for the last hour or so he had been side-tracked by the daily papers.
Ever since he was growing up in Brighton, libraries had held a difficult to explain fascination for Mark, and particularly the reading rooms with the daily national and local papers spread out on massive desks and an array of sensible sounding magazines and journals covering all kinds of interests and hobbies arranged on display stands around the room. He remembered having done a lot of his school work in Brighton Library, walking up from the Seven Dials after school and then meandering down North Road, past the newsagents, second hand shops and record stores that gave that part of Brighton a special feel in the early 1960s. He’d felt comfortable sitting amongst the motley collection of people who had frequented the reading room there. At the time, Mark hadn’t realised that a good few of the regulars who seemed to sit there for most of the day were using it as their second, and sometimes only, home. However, they were only a part of the clientele; there were also what he had liked to think of as intellectuals doing important research and then there were other teenagers, some from his grammar school but also girls from Varndean. One year, it must have been around nineteen sixty-two or three, there’d been a girl called Grace, he’d only found out her name after months of sitting around the same table, usually between half four and half five and before going home for tea. She had long brown hair that reached almost to her waist and somehow managed to make her school uniform look cool. He remembered thinking that her skirt must have been well more than the regulation two inches or so over the knee. And she had smelled nice. They’d smiled at each other most days and often left the library at the same time before going on their different routes home. Perhaps typical of his early forays into the world of male-female relationships, just as he was plucking up the courage to ask if she’d like to go out with him, she stopped coming. He wondered what had become of her. He’d never seen her since her library visits had ended. Probably she had been seen by a more confident, doubtless older, boy and hadn’t realised the potential of the fourteen-year-old budding intellectual she had exchanged all those smiles with. So just one of a series of near-misses and maybes; strange how every decision, or lack of such, shaped one’s future – he remembered having read somewhere that it was called the butterfly effect.
Almost twenty years on, and further along the Sussex coast in Chichester, the library there retained a similar feel and clientele; there were people filling time, or getting essays done, or finding out things as usual. He liked the way that the library staff were always helpful with whatever requests came their way; no doubt the stereotypes must have some basis in reality, but being earnest and interested in books didn’t necessarily mean librarians were naturally boring people. Actually, there hadn’t been a great deal of news to follow on that particular day. The political conference season was in full swing, with the Liberal Party reflecting on the consequences of having voted to form a pact of some kind with the new Social Democratic Party a couple of months previously. Mark doubted this would change the face of life or even politics in Britain too much and realised he didn’t really care either way. He was more interested in reading a review of the cricket season in The Times. It had been an amazing summer of cricket, an Ashes series that England had won three one and it had been dominated by the re-emergence of Ian Botham. When Mark had been at Ford Prison in the mid-1970s, he had followed the rise of Botham – a real ‘boy’s own’, heroic type of figure. Quite early in his career, and with high hopes of leading a new era for English cricket, he’d been given the captaincy of the national team. However things had not worked out and after a pretty disastrous twelve months or so he’d resigned as captain just after the second test of the summer series. Mike Brearley, a more cultured and erudite figure, had replaced him as captain and seemed to be able to bring the best out of Botham himself as well as the whole of the team. For the rest of the summer, Botham had performed miracles. England had been heading for a defeat in the third test at Leeds and with it the prospect of going two down in the series until he’d come in and turned the game around; then in the next Test match he’d bowled half the Australian side out for one run and again snatched a remarkable and improbable victory. Reading through the Times cricket correspondent John Woodcock’s, typically masterful end of season review brought it all back. There really was nothing like test cricket and especially an Ashes series played out over a whole summer.
Meanwhile, he had to get back to the job at hand. As well as poisons, he needed to check out recent developments in criminal detection; no doubt things had moved on and he could do with finding out whether ricin and thallium were becoming any easier to detect. He had a large Chemistry encyclopaedia open in front of him, along with a couple of studies on the medicinal benefits and dangers of natural plants, illustrated with beautifully accurate drawings that betrayed the age of the books. Until recently publishers must have found it cheaper to include intricate, hand-drawn pictures rather than colour photos. The big advantage of public libraries was that you could work in them undisturbed; and if you didn’t take anything out there was not even any record of what you’d been studying. Mark had forgotten the satisfaction, almost thrill, of covering one’s tracks, of avoiding leaving any kind of trail.
He had heard about polonium and its alleged use by the Soviet secret service and had checked that out. Apparently it was a highly radioactive substance that made it an especially toxic poison. Although unlikely to be available through high street chemists, Mark thought it was worth a try at least. The beauty of it was that it didn’t necessarily have to be taken orally: apparently it worked through touch. Botulinum toxin, used to treat spasms and migraines, was another possibility. It seemed likely that both would be rather tricky to get hold of, though, and certainly to do so without arousing suspicion. Better to stick to what he was used to. Mark had visited a good proportion of the chemists in and around Brighton when sorting out his in-laws last time. If he couldn’t find what he needed around this part of Sussex, he reckoned he could always check out a couple of those who hadn’t asked any questions last time and had appeared more than happy to oblige. Hopefully they’d still be trading.
There was something else which might prove useful. He’d picked up a brief comment on a documentary the other night about the discovery and formal recognition in America of a new and increasingly common illness that was killing gay men in different ways. Apparently it attacked the immune system and was pretty much untreatable. From what he had been able to find out, so far it had only been found in gay men, but he needed to get some more detail. It struck him that an incurable disease would be a brilliant change from his previous modus operandi, which could be useful should it come to any investigation in the future. However, and to be realistic, it was hardly likely that he could engineer it for Gemma’s mother to come into contact with an infected gay man, even if he was able to locate such a person in the first place.
It was almost four-thirty, and just as he’d done at their age, a couple of blazered school boys plonked their bags on a nearby table and pulled out their exercise books. Their arrival took Mark by surprise; the day had flown by and it was time for him to leave. He’d agreed to drive along to Littlehampton to meet Gemma after work at five. Before driving back to Petworth, they’d planned to have a drink and meal in a pub they knew near to her old apartment on the sea front.
Although he had made a few notes on this and that, it seemed that really not that much had changed in relation to poisons or forensics over the last few years. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised – it had only been just over half a decade, not long in terms of the history of crime and justice. He hurried along to his car: it would take a good half hour to get to Littlehampton at this time of day and, even though she was generally easy-going, one thing that Gemma hated was waiting around.
***
Gemma had walked down from her office in the town centre to Pier Road and the harbour. With the sun out, it was a pretty sight, in the slightly down-at-heel sort of way that perhaps best typified Littlehampton. There were a couple of fish and chip shops gearing up for the tea time trade, a Mr Whippy ice-cream van hoping to boost its takings for the day from the workers and schoolchildren straggling home to start their weekends, and a little late afternoon activity from the small group of fishing vessels – not enough to call a fleet, she reckoned. The mixture of noises and smells reminded her of family days out, mainly with her dad, come to think of it – the frying of chips, the generator from the ice cream van and the sound of the fishermen cleaning their equipment or hauling their catches up the harbour wall ladders and on to the walkway. The fishermen seemed to have had a decent day: there were plenty of flat fish, mullets and bass but also baskets of eels. Her probation colleague Mathew, the one who had taken over the supervision of Mark, was also a keen fisher and had explained at length to her that the River Arun was renowned as a habitat for those fish and had been so since Roman times. It hadn’t worked as a seduction strategy but she had listened dutifully and learned, apparently by osmosis, a little about the different fish that lived in the area.
As was common practice on Fridays, Gemma had left work early and so was in good time. She sat on a bench across from the Arun View Inn and closed her eyes to the late afternoon sun, waiting for Mark to turn up as arranged. It was hotter than Gemma had thought and even merited some suntan lotion, on her face at least. As she rummaged through her bag for the familiar plastic blue bottle she noticed two seagulls fighting over the remains of an ice cream cornet, and being watched by a lone sparrow, on the off chance they’d leave something behind. Gemma had enjoyed her time in Littlehampton before the move to Petworth. There was no way she was going to live with her mother after her father died and the probation job that came along just as she completed her degree had had its moments, although she had never intended it to be long-term. She wondered if her dad had realised just how badly he’d been treated; but even if he had not, it was up to her to make amends. Gemma was sure he would have understood and supported her. She had to take it slowly, of course, but she was going to sort things, to get what she deserved and what she was sure her dad would be happy with, if there really was any chance he could ever actually know for himself. Even though it seemed to her highly improbable and to fly in the face of any logic, Gemma had never been able to quite dismiss the idea that there really might be life after death and she reckoned he would have been devastated if his daughter’s inheritance was ever hijacked by some future step-father.
So far things had gone well enough. She was almost twenty-five, and could set a year or two as a rough target and the time to have it all worked out and through. The move to Petworth had paved the way for bringing Mark and her mother into contact; and she quite liked living with Mark anyway, he was pretty good company and not bad on the eye too; and so what if he wasn’t long-term? She let the sun play on her eyelids. She wasn’t a bad person, but her mother had been. It might seem like she was using Mark but she would make sure he got what he deserved too. Gemma knew she was never going to ride off into the sunset with Mark but she prided herself on being a fair person; if he helped her she’d be as generous as she could and she’d do her best to let him down gently when it came to it.
Recently she had become somewhat concerned that Mark hadn’t settled into much since his release; and perhaps not surprisingly he appeared to be getting increasingly down about things and even a little insecure about their relationship. It wasn’t an overly obvious or desperate neediness but his desire to please her was beginning to verge on the oppressive; she was thankful that at least he hadn’t mentioned marriage. Anyway, she wasn’t about to take responsibility for his emotional state. From her point of view they were partners in more ways than one and things were going along fine; after all, he was a grown up and knew there were no guarantees.
She heard a car pull in to the pub car park across from the harbour and hoped it was Mark. It had been good of him to drive her to work and a meal out was always nice. Although they hadn’t got round to making any detailed plans, there was a sort of implicit agreement that Anne, her mother, had to be separated from her wealth one way or another and certainly before she had ensnared a second husband. Mark was pretty hopeless at keeping anything to himself and had let it slip that he was going to check out recent crime stories at the library. Mind you, she was surprised he was bothered about keeping anything to himself – surely he’d realised they were both thinking along the same lines. Perhaps being too obvious and brazen about things didn’t seem right, or perhaps he just liked a little subterfuge for the sake of it – after all there was a kind of seductiveness to secrecy. Maybe tonight’s meal would be the time to develop a proper plan of some type, to bring into the open what they had basically already agreed on.
***
Sure enough, it was Mark. She watched him lock the car and cross over to her bench.
‘I haven’t kept you waiting too long have I? The traffic out of Chichester was mad as usual.’
‘No, that’s fine, it’s a lovely afternoon and I like it down here by the harbour. You know, I did actually quite enjoy living in Littlehampton; and we had some good times here, didn’t we?’
They’d been regular visitors to the Arun View when they’d lived in Littlehampton and even though the menu was pretty limited and typical, the fish and chips was usually a safe bet and tasty enough, and Gemma went for that. They were on nodding terms with the landlord and Mark followed his advice and ordered the lamb cutlets, peas and chips followed by Black Forest gateau. There was no shortage of tables and they took their drinks over to one overlooking the harbour. Gemma got straight down to it.
‘Well, did you find anything useful out?’
She needed to convince herself that Mark was on the same wavelength. He had spent the best part of six years locked up and, irrespective of whether or not it was possible to measure rehabilitation, that might have been enough to put anyone off risking going back again. Any such concern was soon allayed: if anything, he appeared to have assumed they had already started. He had clearly got over any compulsion he might have felt for avoiding spelling things out explicitly.
‘Oh you guessed, did you? Yes, it was interesting I suppose, but really there’s been little change since I sorted out Gordon and Jean. I did pick up a couple of ideas but not sure they’d be any better than the old castor beans made into ricin, along with a bit of thallium. Funny thing was, the only poisoning case I could find much of a report on was mine; it’s strange, but I never really read the newspaper reports on it after I’d got sentenced. Actually I felt a bit of a celebrity and a bit weird too, reading about me without the people sitting around me knowing it was me, if you know what I mean.’
So there was no need to worry, he was big-headed enough to believe he could do it all again. Maybe that was a little unkind; she was glad he had enough self-confidence left. Even at this stage Gemma realised that while she would have to help Mark with some of the planning it would be better to keep as much distance as possible from any physical involvement, just in case things went wrong. She would have to make sure there was no hard evidence tying her in – no receipts, no finger prints – and she’d need that to make sure Mark had nothing he could hold over her if it ever came to it. At most she would have to ensure that any evidence was hearsay; and that it would just be Mark’s word against hers. That was only if things went badly wrong of course, but there was no harm in imagining worst-case scenarios.
‘Yes it must be strange, but you know, Mark, you’re the expert, you can do this and you know I’ll help as much as I can. We’re in this together, remember that. So what do you reckon is the best approach, what worked best last time, and would it work again?’
This was more like it. Mark warmed to the task.
‘Well, it’s a matter of gradually wearing someone down, then upping the amounts when they’re weakening. And it’s important to get her doctor, or any doctor really, on side; get them to see that there is a gradual deterioration. What’s on the death certificate is the key, really: that can avoid any detailed post-mortem or autopsy.’
She wasn’t sure what it was, but it made her really quite aroused listening to him talk about her mother as some kind of subject. Mark was keen to explain his strategy.
‘The first thing is to spend more time with her, to take her out and get her to drink more, to have meals with her when I can mix in this and that; to win her confidence, too.’
They’d finished eating and Gemma wanted to get him home while she felt in the mood. It made her feel better if she was treating him and letting him do what he looked as if he wanted to more than anything else. It offered a sort of equilibrium too, to balance her feeling that she was just using him.
‘Okay, we’ll invite her over to ours more often, and as you suggested you can take her up to London sometime and also help arrange a drinks evening or something at hers. You’ve got to charm her too; and another thing is to get that bloody Terry from the golf club out of her mind. He’s been coaching her apparently and she sounded like she was enjoying it. I only picked up on it when I spoke to her the other day and she went on and on about him and her golf. I did ask her about that other chap, the one you said she’d met up with in Guildford, the one with the car, but like you said I think she’s so full of herself that she’s after someone younger. That should make things easier for you, I guess.’
She brought a bottle of red wine from the Arun View’s fairly limited stock and suggested they get back home as quickly as they could. It was never too difficult to get the message across to Mark. It might seem a little calculating, mercenary even, but in her defence she had no intention of going with anyone else while they were working together, whatever might happen in the future. Anyway, she always enjoyed sex with him too.
As they reached home, their row of cottages looked as inviting as ever, nestled on the outskirts of Petworth and with a lovely view of farmland and the gently undulating Downs beyond. As Mark parked in the makeshift driveway at the side of their house, Gemma felt a wave of affection; he may not be her long-term plan, but why not enjoy things for the moment? It wasn’t just about keeping him on track, it was about having a good time at the same time.
‘Why don’t you roll a joint while I get the glasses out?’
Mark didn’t smoke much nowadays but he kept a little stash of Moroccan in case. Gemma had never been much into dope herself, but they liked an occasional joint and now seemed like a good time for one.
Mark didn’t need much encouragement. They sat outside the back door. Old Mrs Mortimer in the middle terrace next door had no idea about pot and the Brays at the end were generally away at the weekends anyway, so there was no need to worry about the smell wafting across the back gardens.
Gemma poured them both second glasses and led Mark upstairs.
‘Come on, we’ve got the rest of the weekend ahead of us and I think we should get down to some serious planning, this week has just about done it for me with probation. It really is becoming a shambles at the moment. Like I said, I’ll keep it going for a few months but that’s it. Let’s arrange a do at my mother’s for the end of the month while it’s still fairly light in the evenings. Meanwhile, I’ve got my needs, you know.’
She let him undress her and sort her out, before doing the same for him and letting him finish off inside her.
Over the last couple of weeks Mark had experienced increasingly regular feelings of déjà vu; perhaps surprisingly, they hadn’t been particularly unpleasant and it was almost as if the last few years had been a mere distraction. They had decided on Saturday the 26th for the planned social evening at Gemma’s family house in Farnham, and it had come around quickly. While Gemma had helped her mother with invites for some of the neighbours and a couple of recently acquired golfing friends and persuaded her to ask Ruth down for the night, Mark had been busy renewing his acquaintance with the world of plants and poisons.
Rather than visit the various and quite numerous chemists and supposed health shops he had previously used in the Brighton area, Mark had toured those in Chichester and then Portsmouth. Somehow it seemed more anonymous in larger towns and the further from Brighton the less chance he felt there’d be of him possibly being remembered. It was still easy enough to get castor beans which could form the staple and initial part of the plan; and producing powdered ricin from them was straightforward enough as well. Even though one of Agatha Christie’s thrillers, The Pale Horse, had encouraged a wider awareness of the dangers of thallium, there were still heavy concentrations of it in the cockroach and rat poisons that chemists as well as hardware stores had plentiful stocks of. Mark had found it particularly useful in the past and although it was not completely untraceable, apart from a danger of hair loss it wasn’t easily recognised, and after all the link with an early 1960s book by Agatha Christie wasn’t an obvious connection to make. Come to think of it, a bit of appropriately targeted depilatory might not be such a bad thing in women of a certain age, he mused; and being realistic, it would take a fair while before any significant loss of hair would become apparent.
It had only taken Mark a bit of driving around to get more than enough of everything he supposed that he might need. The problem was that those shop-bought powders were more difficult to disguise than home-made ricin and would have to be used only as a last resort or a final push if needed. To begin with, apple pips and peach stones crushed up with ricin would be easy enough to slip into anything with a reasonably strong flavour of its own. Then he would need to make sure the right person, in other words Anne, was the only one whose food and drinks had the specially prepared extras included. Mind you, if there were the occasional slip up, one or two other guests suffering stomach cramps wouldn’t be the end of the world; and there’d be no follow-up administering of regular doses with them, so any collateral damage would be limited. It would just be seen as a one-off complaint.
Although to a certain extent he was acting on autopilot Mark had realised that he was actually quite enjoying having something to work on, and some sort of direction and purpose at last. He had plenty of time on his hands and Gemma had encouraged him to drop in on her mother by himself sometimes as a way of getting things moving. In fact, he had called in for lunch last week with a ready prepared shepherd’s pie as a first step and ostensibly to discuss the upcoming party. Gemma had helped by phoning her mum and telling her to give Elaine that day off; and Mark had prepared two separate versions of what had been his signature dish last time around and with his previous in-laws. The lunch trip had worked out well. Mark had persuaded Anne to open a bottle of wine and after a glass of that, along with her usual two or three cigarettes, any slightly odd flavouring was easy enough to put down to the special spices Mark hinted that he used with his cooking. He had decided not to hold back too much this time and even though he saw this as just an initial foray he had put a pretty hefty amount of ricin along with a dash of thallium into Anne’s individual dish; he reckoned her taste buds would be pretty shot through anyway, given her less than healthy lifestyle. The military analogy seemed appropriate: he liked the way it smacked of a planned strategy.
They had sat out on the patio after eating and Mark had suggested he organise a trip up to London for a night out once they’d had the party. One of his old favourite bands, the Pretty Things, had a mid-week residency at the Marquee Club and he considered that a heavy night or two might help things along in due course. Mark would enjoying seeing the band again too, he had always liked their hard rock style and he promised Anne he would bring up his favourite album of theirs, ‘SF Sorrow’, next time he came.
Although he had managed well enough in terms of the conventional poisons Mark had made little headway in trying to get hold of any other drugs. He no longer had ready access to students and the student lifestyle. Since his conviction, he had lost contact with virtually all of his previous colleagues and on the one occasion he had visited the university campus where he had worked it was apparent he was not seen as a prodigal son, let alone a welcome guest. However, he knew one of his previous students-cum-suppliers, Greg, had gone on to take a PhD and might still be around the Brighton area. In the past Greg had always been able to get anything Mark had wanted; the problem was renewing contact. Strangely the only member of the Sociology Department who had shown any sympathy for Mark had been Craig, a new appointment who had only been there for a few weeks before his arrest. He reckoned it might be an idea to contact Craig and see if he knew anything about Greg and where he might be.
Anne had obviously enjoyed his visit and lapped up the compliments about her figure and sense of fun. He’d left promising her a good time the following weekend at her party and also that he would make sure he spent plenty of the evening with her. Even though that would be to take care of what she drunk and what it contained, he also felt a kind of almost charitable warmth toward her too. On his drive back to Petworth that afternoon it had struck Mark that loneliness was perhaps the worst of states to have thrust on you; and even if him helping alleviate that a little might not justify everything that followed, it did have some merit, surely. Anne had looked happy and whatever the motivations and outcome, he was sure that she would enjoy herself along the way. Maybe it was possible to rationalise everything; it might not quite be utilitarianism, perhaps more accurately what he recalled had been termed ‘rational egoism’ back in the late nineteenth century by some philosopher whose name escaped him.
It had all gone pretty smoothly and to be fair quite enjoyably too. Gemma was sitting on the back patio overlooking the garden with another glass of wine in her hand and feeling pleasantly out of it. It was approaching mid-night and Mark, Anne and two remaining guests, the neighbours from next door but one, had joined her and were enjoying the surprisingly mild late summer night. Two weeks since it was last full, there was only the slightest crescent of the waning moon apparent between the intermittent clouds that were drifting from right to left, slowly and noiselessly but also apparently purposely. Although the Seadons were retired and must have been approaching their seventies they had kept going as long as anyone and were telling Gemma’s mother they had had their best night out for a very long time. As it had turned out there’d only been a dozen or so there – two more couples from Lynch Lane plus a couple of Anne’s new golfing buddies along with their husbands – but everyone had appeared to enjoy themselves.
Gemma let the conversation and cigarette smoke drift over her. It had got to the stage of the analysing the guests who’d left and who were now being unpicked one by one – as loud, unsophisticated, boring, along with an occasional ‘quite pleasant really’. She let them get on with it; after all, gossiping had always been her mother’s favourite pastime. Seeing Mark in action had been something of an eye-opener for her; he really was a very smooth operator and Gemma could see things working out pretty much as she had hoped for.
She and Mark had arrived earlier that afternoon to get the nibbles and drinks ready. The idea of a buffet had appealed to Gemma’s mum but it did leave a problem for Mark. In the end he had decided to leave the food un-tampered with as it would be too difficult to check who picked up what, and too many bouts of unexplained illnesses might have been awkward to explain. However, he had kept a close eye on Anne’s drink. Somehow he had managed to spend virtually the whole night rarely wandering less than a few feet away from her, but also had never looked as if he was doing anything other than mingling and hosting. Gemma had made a point of watching him filling Anne’s glass but even though she knew what he was up to she had only once caught him shielding the glass and fiddling in his jacket pocket for a little extra. Of course she was pretty sure that no one, not even her mother, knew about Mark’s past. It had been over six years ago and there was no reason for anyone there or anywhere really to make the link. Gemma had never had the type of mother-daughter relationship that involved discussing boyfriends or partners. It had helped, too, that Anne had never shown the slightest interest in her daughter’s work with criminals, aside from wondering why she even bothered to work at all. As far as Anne was concerned Mark was just a nice, articulate and attentive man who was her daughter’s new and, given his charming manner, hopefully long-term boyfriend. She also liked it that he was a good deal older than Gemma: it helped develop a little empathy between herself and him.
Gemma and Mark had decided to stay over in Farnham as part of the plan and also because they were both well over any breathalyser limits. Mark had a thing about the morning after breakfast being a good opportunity to build on whatever he might have added to the drinks and food the night before; a fry up provided excellent camouflage for masking the bitter taste of ricin and thallium, while any odd tastes would be likely to be put down to the previous night’s excesses. They even had a choice of rooms, too, as Ruth hadn’t made it in the end. Her excuse had been a migraine but even though Anne was apparently her best friend it had hardly been unexpected – it was only on rare occasions that Ruth managed to get out of London and she seldom made any effort other than for herself.
Rousing herself from her reverie Gemma could see that her mother looked well the worse for wear; mind you, Mark had made sure she’d drunk plenty and given the mixtures he’d prepared her drawn look was hardly surprising, nor was the fact that she was complaining of a nagging stomach pain. The heavily applied make-up had worn off and what was left behind was less than impressive; maybe ‘haggard’ was a bit unkind but certainly ‘gaunt’ and ‘faded’ were appropriate descriptors. The top Anne had chosen for the previous night was too low cut. It hadn’t been too obvious earlier on but by the end of the evening the revealing of protruding collar bones and below them a heavily furrowed décolletage was quite off-putting. The image in Gemma’s mind resembled a re-working of Harry Beck’s famous London underground map, with all the lines leading to increasingly emaciated breasts that were drooping at an alarming angle. Gemma realised how little she cared for her mother, and how much she resented her, and how much she wished things had been different; the posh house and all the trimmings couldn’t make up for the lack of affection and love she had craved.
Eventually the Seadons had said their goodbyes and left. Mark had propelled her mother up to bed. In spite of her state, Gemma had heard her telling Mark that she had had a great night and, in a drunken slur, that he was too good for her daughter.
Gemma had called up to Mark: ‘Let’s have a last drink down here before we tidy up a little.’
She hoped he had thought to bring a joint or two; she’d never been a heavy smoker but sometimes it did just feel right. He didn’t disappoint and he seemed full of himself as well.
‘Well, I think that’s started things; if we hang around and prepare her breakfast then we can leave it for a week or two and work out a timetable. Do you fancy a little smoke before we go to bed?’
Gemma beckoned him over and put her arms round him.
‘You were great, Mark, and I was hoping you’d have a joint ready. We – well, really you – deserve it.’
Since the evening at her mother’s Gemma had found it increasingly difficult to keep a focus on the day job. The driving to and from Littlehampton, the paperwork, the interminable hanging around at various courts, the hopeless and hapless offenders, and alongside all of that the idiots she had to work with – it had never been how she had envisaged her life panning out; and she was determined that it couldn’t go on for much longer. Seeing how Mark had taken to his new, really renewed, role had made her realise that it could be for real; things could work out the way she had occasionally imagined. Although Gemma had never had a clear or detailed plan in mind, she could see herself getting her revenge, and her dad’s, and perhaps a good deal more besides. Meanwhile, she knew she had to keep everything else as normal as possible, to carry on as the supposedly dedicated junior probation office keen to make her way in a chosen profession. She realised she had to keep herself above any future suspicion, to keep up the image, just in case. That didn’t mean she couldn’t help keep Mark on track and help with the practical side of things, too.
Now that it was all out in the open between them, a good deal of their time was spent discussing progress and strategies. It had given Mark and her a closeness which Gemma was enjoying more than she had thought and which he seemed pretty happy with too. Maybe it was the thrill of danger, the allure of engaging in something which was so beyond the bounds, so callous and calculating too; it was little surprise that crime could be so addictive. They had agreed the do at Anne’s had been a good start and that Mark’s approach of regular and varied doses was the only way to make it all seem natural. She had been amused by the fantasy he’d told her he’d had after his previous efforts with his in-laws: essentially it involved him being given the sobriquet of ‘The Cocktail Murderer’ and being accorded similar notoriety to the most infamous of villains. Gemma wondered if he really believed a place in history beckoned.
As it was, and for the next stage of things, Mark wanted to add to the mix by getting hold of some more conventional but illegal drugs before the promised night out in London with Anne. He had arranged to meet up with his former colleague Craig later in the week to see if Craig could help him make contact with that market. Meanwhile Gemma was pursuing an idea she had about one of her current clients, Roger, which she reckoned could potentially add an extra element to Mark’s cocktail approach. Knowing she had an official appointment with Roger scheduled for later that day had given her a little more enthusiasm for the drive down to work that morning.
It was surprisingly warm for early October and she had put on a low cut strap dress and ankle sandals, and more lipstick than she usually wore for the office. She felt good and knew she looked good. She had always been well aware of her ability to manipulate older males. Typically pervy, in spite of his pro-feminist posturing and self-righteousness, Mathew hadn’t been able to lift his eyes as far as her neck when she had breezed into the office earlier; and her boss Gregory had been embarrassingly but quaintly incoherent when he’d hovered around her desk, seemingly with some memo which he’d never even got to deliver. Even Lizzie told her that she looked summery and full of life.
She was reading through Roger’s file with more care than she would normally have done when the internal phone buzzed and Lizzie spoke.
‘There’s Roger here to see you, Gemma.’
‘Thanks, send him in please.’
Roger must have been in his late forties if not older, judging from the details he’d provided as part of his mitigation when he was sentenced at the local magistrates’ court a few weeks back. Apparently he had been conscripted for his two year’s national service from 1949. An army background, even from some time ago, usually helped impress magistrates and he had been lucky to be given a two-year suspended sentence for cultivation of marijuana, which he had claimed was for personal use even though there was enough to last him a couple of lifetimes at least. Tall and thin, with piercing blue eyes, he looked like, and probably was given his offence, an ex-hippy as well as ex-soldier. One of the conditions of his suspended sentence was that he would be supervised by a probation officer and that task had fallen to Gemma.
The bell on her office door tinkled as Roger pushed it open; he did a double-take.
‘Bloody hell Miss, you look good; makes these visits a real pleasure, you know.’
Gemma had taken to him on her first contact immediately after the court case, not for any particular reason other than that he was more articulate and easier to talk to than most of her clients. And to be fair, with those eyes, he reminded her of Peter O’Toole, which wasn’t a bad comparative. She decided to get straight on with her ploy. She never doubted he would fancy her anyway. As with so many local cases, probation and police officers, court staff and local solicitors generally knew one another, had established decent working relations and were happy to share information. In this case, Gemma had managed to read up more than usual on Roger’s background from his solicitor’s unofficial notes. As well as the army background he had held a variety of jobs including farm work and as a crew hand on a fishing trawler; he had lived on what appeared to be some sort of small holding for many years and apparently was a keen naturalist. It was just an inkling of an idea but Gemma remembered one or two of the supposedly cooler students at her university had either found or bought magic mushrooms; these were apparently quite common and, as well as giving a decent buzz, were also potentially poisonous, or at least might be mistaken for mushrooms which were.
‘Look Roger, we both know you’re not going to change your habits of a lifetime but that with some care and common sense you’ll probably not get in trouble again. However, you’ll have to at least consider other ways of enjoying yourself. You don’t have to break the law, you know; and you know I’ll have to write regular reports on how you’re doing for the next two years. So you will have to be straight with me right from the start.’
She decided to trust her instincts and push on.
‘I shouldn’t be saying this but I’ve read up on your situation and personally I don’t mind what you get up to or what you find when you’re out and about in the countryside, but it would be wise not to grow anything you shouldn’t at your own place, that would be asking for trouble. You do realise that your suspended sentence can easily be revoked and you could actually end up in prison?’
Roger seemed to see what she was getting at. Either she had been too obvious or it was something he was already more than familiar with: probably the latter, she fancied.
‘It’s a fair point, and you know, funny you should say that, because there are lots of natural things you can find that are just as good as dope and not illegal either. You may be surprised to know that I’m pretty clued up on all sorts of different plants and even mushrooms and I know where the best places to find them are. And if they grow in the wild, what could be more natural?’
She wasn’t surprised; her instincts were usually never that far out.
‘You shouldn’t really be telling me, Roger, but I’m glad we’re being honest. We need to be if we’re going to get your supervision right. And you know, I’d like to think that I’m not just your probation officer.’
For a moment Gemma wondered if she’d gone too far. Maybe she should play it reasonably straight for now, or strike a balance at least. She needn’t have worried; Roger was warming to her plan without realising it was one.
‘Come on Miss – actually, can I call you Gemma? I know that’s your name. As I said, these things aren’t illegal, they can be dangerous but I know what’s what in that area. And you know, it’s really nice and even therapeutic foraging in nice woodlands, I often go to the New Forest, it’s beautiful down there. And come to think of it, you’re right, there’s no need to risk growing things in my own back yard, that would be stupid.’
This was going to be easier than she’d thought or expected.
‘Well, as we’re going to be meeting up for a couple of years and as I do want us to have an honest working relationship, you can call me Gemma if you like, but only when there’s just the two of us, of course.’
She carried on.
‘And yes I agree the New Forest is amazing, even if I don’t know it as well as you, I love it too.’
Roger was clearly in his element.
‘Look, I know we’ve got to be professional and everything but you’re not working all the time, why don’t I take you down to some of my favourite spots sometime?’
Gemma was well aware it was straying well beyond the professional, but then she had no intention of being professional for that much longer anyway. Nonetheless, she knew that she had to be the one pulling the strings. Feed them the ideas and then let them imagine they were the ones in charge – that was how it was with Mark too.
‘Well, I’ll see Roger, but you know, it might be a nice change. The thing is, it might put me in a compromising position, though.’
Roger was hooked and Gemma realised she’d have to make sure he wasn’t expecting too much, and also she’d have to deal with Mark’s jealousy, but it would be great if she could get hold of some pretty deadly mushrooms. And so what if Roger fancied her? He wasn’t too bad looking in a weather-worn kind of way and to be fair a bit of flirting wouldn’t be too unpleasant. Oddly enough, and somewhat tangentially, she remembered reading something about a new religious cult or sect, the Children of God she thought, which encouraged female members to flirt with potential recruits as a way of getting them involved – something like ‘flirty-fishing’ it had been called.
Meanwhile Roger was well away with planning it.
‘There’s loads of fly agaric around, they’re like the magic mushrooms, you know, but better, and then there’s some to avoid, death cap in particular. The thing with amanita mushrooms, which is what they are, is the slight differences that you have to be aware of. Also how to prepare and cook them, they’re ten times more poisonous if eaten raw, you know.’
‘Well, it would be interesting, Roger, and fun too. I’ll see when I’m free and maybe in the next week or so and we can coincide it with our next session. I’ve got another meeting to go to now so let’s arrange that next session, maybe two weeks today?’
‘Sure Gemma, that sounds nice, but you know October’s a good month, the best really, before it gets too cold. Next week would be good, better in fact. Maybe we could bring the next meeting forward a little?’
Gemma didn’t want to look too keen but that made sense and the sooner she got something the sooner she could help Mark to push on with things.
‘Well yes maybe, let me check a couple of dates and get back to you, I’ve got your phone number here. And, Roger, just a nice trip out into the countryside: nothing else, Ok?’
‘Sure thing, Miss, or Gemma if I may. I understand and you can trust me, I’m not a grass or anything, this would never go any further.’
Although it wasn’t just that she had been alluding to, she believed him. He actually did seem to be a genuinely nice man, if slightly unconventional.
Turning into the university grounds, Mark tried to fight the somewhat surprising feelings of regret, almost sadness, that had been building up as he circuited Hove and then Brighton on the A27. As he pulled off the Lewes Road and up to the university campus the rich autumnal colours hiding the not unpleasant 1960s buildings reminded him of how it could have worked out. Designed by Sir Basil Spence, Sussex University certainly put to shame the functional technical colleges that Mark had tried his luck at earlier in the year.
It was strange but after less than a year his time in prison had become a kind of blur. ‘Doing time’ was such an accurate description and he’d never really dwelt on what might have been in terms of his academic career – he’d focused his frustrations and anger more on how Justine and others had let him down. He would surely have been a Senior Lecturer, if not Professor, by now.
It was just after 4 o’clock; various classes and lectures must have just finished, judging by the groups of students heading to the bus stops or car park. Mark realised that it was probably the first week of teaching after the summer break so it was not surprising there were so many around. He remembered how attendance gradually declined as the academic year progressed and students found more interesting things to do with their time. The initial keenness and naivety of the quaintly-named ‘freshers’ soon receded, particularly when it was clear that attendance at lectures wasn’t monitored in the ways they might have been used to at school, and indeed that such events were in many ways peripheral to student life anyway.
From what he’d picked up the social sciences were still attracting more and more students and no doubt the Sociology department was thriving. Craig was waiting for him outside the science block: he didn’t drive and Mark had offered to pick him up and go into town for a bite to eat and a couple of drinks. Craig was the only person there whom Mark had kept in touch with and they had decided it wouldn’t be a good idea for Mark to risk bumping into any of his ex-colleagues, and particularly Sandra. She’d been his friend and mentor when he had started at Sussex; in fact their relationship had strayed beyond the professional but in the end her suspicions, coupled with jealousy when Justine took over his attention, had helped everything unravel back in 1974.
‘It’s good of you to invite me down, Craig. Let’s go to the Ship for some food and then maybe the King and Queens, I haven’t been there for years.’
Brighton was still his favourite town and it felt good to be back there and to drive down past the entrances to Stanmer and Moulscomb parks, then along Lewes Road and through the outskirts of town, on to Victoria Gardens, the Old Steine fountain and the Royal Pavilion. They parked just off Church Street and walked through the pavilion grounds, resplendent with purple and pink hydrangeas still in full bloom, then past the front of the ornate, Regency-style Theatre Royal and on to the Old Ship Hotel. A few office workers were grabbing a quick drink after work but it was easy enough to find a table overlooking the promenade and Palace Pier.
Craig filled him in on what had been going on in the world of Sociology. He had only just started in the department at Sussex the term before Mark’s confession and subsequent imprisonment, but had been the only one to offer any kind of support or sympathy; and the only one who had visited him during his years away. Sure, there might have been a bit of ghoulish interest, and it did fit in with his interest in developing the sociology of deviance courses he’d taken over, but it was better than the way just about everyone else he had worked with had lined up to condemn him. He even suggested he could try to help Mark get back into his old role.
‘You know I could have a word with Michael, he’s still Head of Department, we’re bloody short staffed right now and they’re looking for part-time people, hourly paid.’
It was nice of Craig to suggest but Mark knew it would never happen.
‘That’s nice of you Craig, but they’d never have me back either at Sussex – or anywhere else, for that matter. These places might try and appear liberal and unprejudiced but a conviction for murder would be a step too far. Anyway I’ve got plans of my own, you know.’
He didn’t want to give too much away but needed to see if Craig could help.
‘The thing is, I’ve basically lost touch with people I used to get stuff from and I could do with getting some drugs, speed or coke maybe; just for me and Gemma, old habits die hard and all that. I know you’re into that and there were a couple of students who used to help me out in that direction, one in particular was Greg Corner and I think he was planning to go on to a PhD in our department. I was wondering if you knew anything about him or had any other contacts?’
‘Bloody hell Mark, I’m not really in touch with it all, but I do know who you mean and he actually completed a year or two back; but the thing is, I never really knew him anyway. I do get a bit of dope from time to time but that’s about it and not so often now. I reckon I’m getting past it but I suppose I could try and ask around surreptitiously.’
‘Fair enough and that’d be nice, but Greg could get hold of all sorts. Anyway, it was worth a try, I guess. We could go to the King and Queens but I guess that’d be a bid dodgy just trying to score randomly.’
The look on Craig’s face indicated that he agreed.
‘Yes I don’t think that’d be a good idea – you never know if any of our students are there – but let’s go and have a pint anyway.’
It had turned out to be a pleasant enough evening. Mark enjoyed picking up on a bit of gossip and had learned that there had been something of a division in his old department. On the one hand there was a loose combination of the Marxist and feminist advocates who seemed to think their purpose there was to convert the undergraduates who came their way to the fight for justice; and then there were those tending to support a more qualitative and broadly interpretivist approach, who were pretty much focused on research for the sake of it. As well as that there was Ernest, close to retirement but still number-crunching and seemingly in a world of his own. By virtue of longevity, really, Ernest had been given the title of Reader and Deputy Head of Department and was the only one there interested in quantitative research. According to Craig, Michael had been promoted to Professor and had been trying to keep it all on track while busy building a mini-empire there. It was all quite interesting but not much help to Mark, or to his and Gemma’s plans. He dropped Craig off at the house he’d bought close to the Seven Dials and they promised to keep in touch, but Mark doubted Sociology would play much part in his own future.
Gemma had dropped Roger off at his rented cottage in the little village of Tortington, on the outskirts of Littlehampton and just up the road from Ford prison. It really did merit the title of small holding and beyond the quite impressively stocked vegetable patch there must have been close on an acre of open countryside that came with the property. She didn’t bother to ask where he had been cultivating his marijuana; probably better for her to keep some professional distance.
All in all, it had been quite a successful day and she had a bag of fly agaric mushrooms along with a handful of Amanita phalloides, better known as death cap mushrooms. Driving home through Arundel she was looking forward to getting back and providing Mark with something useful. He’d been a bit down since his unsuccessful trip to Brighton and she needed him to keep positive and busy.
She had met Roger late that morning at the Littlehampton office for his regular supervision meeting and then taken the afternoon off so they could get to the New Forest for some foraging as Roger put it. To avoid any gossip, she hadn’t told her colleagues and rather than leave the office together they had met up on her way out of town; the slightly cloak and dagger approach had appealed to Roger. The afternoon itself had turned out to be great fun; it had taken her back to school trips out to local woods, nature reserves and the like. Roger had told her to bring decent walking boots or something sturdy at least and he was dressed for the part: a warm jacket with plenty of pockets, brown cord trousers and what looked like mountaineering boots. He looked quite good and certainly good for his age; fringed with his slightly greying but full head of hair, his face evidenced the warm, slightly careworn, look of someone who was happy in his own company. She’d been a little taken aback when he told her he was almost 52. It was nice that he obviously fancied her and took every opportunity to help her over gates and through the various bits of woodland they visited; and especially that there wasn’t anything obviously salacious or creepy about his concern for her. She was surprised that she had found herself thinking that maybe when this is all over she could keep in touch with him. If he had actually made a move she wondered whether she would have put up that much resistance – she reckoned it was those blue eyes that did it.
It had soon become clear that Roger was something of an expert. On the drive out of Sussex, past Portsmouth and over the mouth of the Solent he had lectured Gemma about the ins and outs of mushroom hunting. He was particularly excited as September to November was apparently the best time of year, and even more so today because the rain they had had overnight would trigger the appearance of mushrooms as well as improve their chances of finding what they wanted. On top of all of that, she had learned that the New Forest was probably the most fruitful place in the country for such fungi hunting.
Once they’d passed Totton and parked up they had started on a route that Roger obviously knew well. As they moved from one wooded area to another, he had explained why the wicker basket he’d brought was ideal as it held the mushrooms but at the same time let the spores through the gaps in the rushwork as they walked. Roger had various brown paper bags in his pockets to separate out different batches; he explained that plastic bags were no good as they made the mushrooms sweat and spoil. When they had found a cluster of fly agaric in a small copse of what he told her were ancient beech trees, he’d stopped Gemma just pulling them out by hand and showed her how to use a knife to cut them from the base. He explained that fly agaric were not the same as liberty cup mushrooms, which were the type known colloquially as magic mushrooms, but reckoned they were stronger and had a nicer effect as well. Even though she had felt like a schoolchild he hadn’t talked down to her and she had really quite enjoyed his attention; he’d even brought a separate knife for her to use as well. What she’d liked most, though, had been the magnifying glass he had fished out from somewhere to inspect each of the mushrooms they located. If he had added a deerstalker it wouldn’t have been out of place. After a couple of hours, as well as the fly agaric and death caps which she had told him she wanted as a sort of souvenir – and which Roger seemed to show little concern over her interest in, so enthused was he by having a pupil to collect with – they had also harvested a decent supply of edible varieties, particularly chanterelles and blewits, which he assured her would be fine to cook and eat.
By early evening Gemma had arrived back in Petworth in good spirits and the rest of the night had turned out pretty well too. Mark was made up he had another and different ingredient to add to his collection and repertoire; and he seemed pleased that she was getting involved too. She didn’t bother to mention how much she had enjoyed spending the time with Roger – no point in tempting fate, or more precisely jealousy. Even though he had claimed to have taken most available drugs during his student days, Mark had never tried mushrooms and had suggested they try a small amount of the fly agarics she had brought back, as they weren’t the deadly ones and so as to check them out, as he put it. He had dried a couple out and made some tea with them and they’d certainly worked. Gemma had never taken acid but Mark had compared the effect to a mild trip; everything gave the impression of being softer and somehow fuzzier and Gemma had felt light-headed and excited at the same time. They’d sat out in the garden till the early hours and had just listened to the sounds of the countryside. It was either karma or just luck, but there was a full moon that night and the fields behind their cottage had been lit with an ethereal glow that enhanced the whole experience. In the end she hadn’t got to sleep till around four or five and had had to phone in sick the next day; even though there was no particular hangover she was tired and just couldn’t be bothered.
Mark was preparing a decent selection of ingredients from his supply of castor beans, fruit pips and stones and thallium. As well as all of that, he thought he might as well try out the death caps for the first time too.
It was the day he had arranged to take Anne up to London for a night out and he knew that they needed to get on with sorting things out. Gemma was clearly fed up with her probation job. In fact, of late she seemed to be pretty fed up in general. The only things she had shown any enthusiasm about recently revolved around the guy who’d got the mushrooms for her and was on some kind of probation register, apparently for growing marijuana – mind you, he did sound an interesting character. Mark put aside a definite twinge of jealousy – Gemma had told him he was fifty-two, after all. They had been discussing how to hurry things along with her mother the other night and Gemma had made it clear that she wanted to get on with it and to have enough money to do what she wanted, and in the not too distant future as well. It had struck him at the time and he didn’t know if it was just because he hadn’t noticed it before, but Gemma had been looking really good recently. She’d started swimming a couple of evenings a week, driving the ten miles or so up to the public pool at Haslemere; and she’d taken to wearing tight t-shirts or jumpers over jeans, all of which highlighted her great figure. She was a good few years younger than him and looked it, and he realised he’d need to make sure he kept her happy and, as she reminded him from time to time, well off.
They had only been up to Farnham a couple of times since the soiree-cum-party, just over a month ago now and time was beginning to drag. On each occasion Mark had done the cooking and added a little of his favourite flavouring, ricin made from castor beans; but now was the time to really go for it. After all, it had taken a good few weeks to wear Jean, his previous mother-in-law, down and she had definitely been in a worse general state of body and mind than Anne before he had begun the process.
Mark had set off for Farnham early that afternoon. Gemma had helped to persuade her mother it would be good for her to get out and that it would be a nice opportunity for her and Mark to get to know one another. Also that Gemma would be happy to have some time to herself while they were away – which wasn’t a lie. She had always liked to have her own space, to use that irritating description, but since they’d moved in together, and with Mark not working, she’d rarely had any time without him being there, and it was beginning to do more than just niggle her. Once the date had been agreed Anne had arranged for her and Mark to stay over at her friend Ruth’s flat, just off Oxford Street; Mark had suggested that it would be too late to get back after going to see some live music at the Marquee and they might as well make a night of it. He’d even prepared a couple of versions of his signature shepherd’s pie in the usual separate individual casserole dishes, one with edible mushrooms added, the other an additional sprinkling of fly agaric and death’s cap. Only a small amount the first time: he needed to monitor the results to begin with. It’d be too obvious if he overdid it. Mind you, he had done a bit of research and discovered that poisoning from mushrooms was a pretty common occurrence. Of course, it might be easy enough to recognise at autopsy but he reckoned the symptoms could easily be confused with a bout of gastroenteritis.
As he drove into Farnham and on to Lynch Lane he wondered if this was his real identity, and destiny too. The slightly disarming thing was that it all seemed so normal. The back door was unlocked and Mark went straight in; he found Anne in her usual spot in the living room. After checking that the housekeeper, Edith, had left for the day he suggested they eat something there before taking the train up to Waterloo.
‘Good idea to line our stomachs, Anne. I fancy a few drinks and a good night out later.’
Anne looked quite presentable, at first glance anyway. The heavily applied make-up had done a reasonable job in hiding the stretched skin and deepest wrinkles and her trouser suit over a high-necked blouse hid the bony chest and protruding collar bones. He had never been able to understand the obsession so many women seemed to have for developing a gaunt and emaciated, almost cadaverous, look. It was something to blame the sixties for and certainly didn’t do anything for Mark. After all Marilyn Monroe’s shoulder blades and clavicles had been well hidden, as were those of Rita Hayworth, Lana Turner and the Hollywood icons of earlier decades; and it was curvaceous females who inspired the classic paintings of Rubens and Rembrandt, and before them the Renaissance masters such as Titian and Correggio. Anyway, all that was by the by. He pulled up a chair and launched into action.
‘You look well Anne, and the trouser suit’s very nice.’
Anne smiled at him.
‘You know it’s good of you to take time out for me, Mark. I’m going to make sure I have a good time. I’ve been having odd stomach pains and cramps recently and I’m fed up with just sitting around feeling my age.’
That sounded positive, and as if the previously administered bits and pieces of ricin and the rest were beginning to have the expected cumulative effect. Mark realised it would be useful to get any deterioration in Anne’s health logged by her doctor, and as soon as possible.
‘Well no harm in seeing your doctor about that, it’s important to get things checked out, we’ll make an appointment when we get back, you must remind me. Anyway, let me heat up the shepherd’s pie I’ve brought and we’ll get going after. I thought I’d take the car up to the station, park it there and leave it for the night. You know, I’m looking forward to it too: I haven’t been to London for a while now. It’ll be a pleasure – and you do look bloody good, by the way.’
He parked up just after half five and they settled into their seats on the train. Mark got himself a beer and Anne a gin and tonic; it might help take the edge off any pain or stomach cramps from the mushrooms. He watched the suburbs of South East London flash by: Woking, Weybridge, Walton-on-Thames and Surbiton. He really was quite good at this – older women certainly took to him, and not just older ones, he’d like to think. Waterloo station was heaving with commuters going the opposite way to them; they battled through to the underground and took the tube up to Bond Street. It was a short walk to Ruth’s and they picked up the key she had left for her flat from the downstairs neighbour. Apparently, she was out for the afternoon and probably wouldn’t get to see them before tomorrow morning if they were back too late that night.
‘Let’s get ourselves settled in at Ruth’s first then we’ll head up to Wardour Street and the Marquee in a bit, it’s just a couple of stops on the Central Line up to Tottenham Court Road and then just round the corner.’
***
As Mark and Anne emerged from the tube into the London night there was an unmistakable air of anticipation as the Soho area was beginning to spring to life. They walked a short way up Oxford Street before turning down Dean Street and cutting through to the Marquee part way down Wardour Street. They picked up their tickets at the door and Mark ushered Anne to a table as near to the back of the club as he could find; although it was pretty dark inside he still felt a little uncomfortable and obvious, as if he was either a gigolo or else reduced to having to take his mother out for company. He wasn’t going to overdo things but intended to get Anne reasonably drunk and to add some of the thallium he’d acquired to her drinks whenever he could. Fortunately thallium salt was still easy enough to get from most chemists; although best known as a rat poison it was still widely used to treat skin infections such as ringworm. The big advantage was that its effects didn’t become noticeable for at least a week or so; however, one of its known side effects was hair loss and he didn’t want to risk raising any suspicions too soon. He had only brought about half a teaspoon’s worth with him and knew he had to be careful; apparently a gram was close to a fatal dose. His plan was to add a little to a couple of drinks and then a bit more when he prepared breakfast, or coffee at least, the next morning at Ruth’s. Mark had been trying to get hold of some polonium which he’d found out had been the cause of a number of deaths by poisoning in the 1960s, particularly at laboratories in Israel, and which was just about untraceable, but had had no luck so far. The two chemists he had tried had given him rather odd looks when he’d enquired about it – it was obviously a long shot.
The band that night were doing the usual sound checks as Mark returned from the bar with a double G & T and a Southern Comfort; after all, he might as well enjoy himself too or at least try to take the edge off things. He had chosen that particular night because the Pretty Things were scheduled to be playing but, annoyingly, there’d apparently been a late change. He hadn’t bothered to check the tickets at the door and only found out at the bar. He passed the news on to Anne.
‘According to the barman there’s been a change to the bill. The Pretty Things have cancelled, he didn’t know why, but Marillion are a new band who played their first gig here last week, as a support act, but because they were so good they’ve been invited straight back. They’re progressive rock with a bit of jazz thrown in apparently. Should be worth hearing, I’m sure.’
All of that meant little to Anne, of course, and he was pleased to see that she looked as if she was enjoying herself.
‘Thanks Mark, it’s been a while since I heard any live music. They do look very young, I must say, and so do most of the crowd.’
Mark could see that was the case, he tried to play it down.
‘Well they do to me too, I guess it’s inevitable but I have seen a few other older people in the audience as well. Come on, drink up and I’ll get another one in before they start.’
Mark had noticed a group of what looked like students rolling joints at a nearby table and the atmosphere in the club was already exhibiting the distinctive sweet aroma of pot, mingling with that of cigarettes, sweat and alcohol. He wondered about trying to get something for himself to help the evening along but thought better of it. From what he’d picked up from Anne over their recent meetings she was pretty much against drugs of the illegal variety and there was no point in antagonising her. Regular dope wouldn’t help much with the plan anyway.
As it turned out the music was great and Marillion were certainly worth watching. Given the reason he was there, it felt a little ironic that Anne had slipped him a ten pound note which was more than enough for the drinks and entry. He had kept the G & Ts flowing and had no trouble adding the extra ingredients he’d brought along. By the end of the set Anne was well away. They’d even got to their feet and swayed around a bit for the last couple of songs; although Mark had made sure they didn’t venture too far away from their table.
As they left and hit the night air. Mark hailed them a cab rather than try to battle with the tube again. It was only a few minutes down Oxford Street. Things had gone as well as Mark could have hoped. Anne was clearly quite taken with him and a few more weeks, perhaps more realistically months, and maybe Gemma and he would have sorted it all out.
By the time he had manoeuvred her out of the cab and up the two flights of stairs to Ruth’s apartment, Anne was too far gone for a night cap. He’d finish off the thallium in the morning.
‘You get a good night’s sleep and we’ll leave after we’ve had some breakfast tomorrow morning.’
At least she didn’t try to kiss him.
‘Yes that was great Mark, I’ve had such a good night. Gemma’s a lucky girl to have someone like you. My Jeffrey wasn’t much fun you know… nothing like you. I think he just had no idea how to treat me, really.’
He chaperoned her into the spare room and let her drift off. Ruth’s bedroom door was closed but she had left him some bedding on the sofa. Even though it doubled as a bed Mark was happy enough to sleep on it as it was. As he’d promised he phoned Gemma to tell her how it had all gone and to suggest they follow things up by regular weekend visits to Farnham. You had to keep the momentum up; he’d learnt that much last time.
Mark brought the tray back with the leftovers of breakfast on it into the kitchen where Gemma was tidying up and making her own breakfast. He poured himself a glass of orange juice. It was Saturday so Edith wasn’t around, much to Gemma’s relief. They’d driven up to Farnham the previous tea-time. Mark had prepared individual dishes again and they made sure Anne had eaten the one with the rather wider selection of mushrooms in it. Their plan had been to stay over and spend the evening encouraging her to have a few drinks with them, duly prepared by Mark. Anne had just about managed to get the hang of the video recorder and they’d watched two episodes of her current favourite drama, Brideshead Revisited, while Mark plied her with as much G & T plus additions as he could.
‘She looks pretty bad this morning, she’s only had half the coffee and hasn’t touched her toast. I think we’d better call Dr Ferguson again.’
Gemma agreed. ‘Okay, will do, I reckon he’s getting the picture so I’m sure he’ll come. I’ll go up and tell her to stay in bed for the time being.’
‘Look, Gemma I think this could be all over soon, I recognise the signs. Are you definite you want her out of the way? She is your mother.’
Over the last few weeks, Mark had harboured the odd doubts as to whether Gemma was really determined to go through with things. He needed to reassure himself that it was a joint effort and he wouldn’t be left by himself to take any kind of blame. It all felt a little strange working with someone rather than alone. Of course, Gemma had played her part and come to think of it had really planned the whole thing, but, apart from the mushrooms, it was he who had got hold of the various poisons, mixed the drinks and prepared all the food.
‘I’ve said this all along, Mark, we’re in this together. I can never forgive her, you know that, I’m fine with things. The sooner the better, in fact.’
Mark put the doubts to the back of his mind.
‘The thing is, I’ve got to make sure there’s no link to my past, and that no one makes that connection. You’re sure Anne has no idea about how you met me or about my past? And what about your work colleagues, did you ever let anything slip?’
Gemma did her best to reassure him.
‘No, I’ve never told my mum anything about that, or about anything really, she’s never been that interested anyway. It’s only a few people at work, maybe Mathew, David and Lizzie who obviously knew about your past, but I’ve been distancing myself from them recently and in any case there’s really no need for them to find out anything about my mum when it happens. I’ve never really talked about my family to any of them. Also, I’m planning to hand in my notice before Christmas, in fact I’ve decided that I’m going to next week. I’ve been thinking about it and I’ve got a few more days leave to take so if I hand in my notice next Tuesday my last day should be the twenty-second which will take me to the end of the year, so I’ll be out of it before anything happens anyway.’
Yes, he was probably being a little paranoid. There was a slight danger that someone might make a link if Anne’s death was reported in any detail and if they remembered the press reports around his trial back in the early 1970s. However, that wouldn’t be likely to happen if Anne’s death was just seen as natural causes; and there was no one he felt he had to confess to this time. Actually, there was no reason why it shouldn’t be easy enough to keep things quiet, as long as they got it right. One elderly widow dying of natural causes in Farnham was hardly likely to make the news in Littlehampton, or anywhere else for that matter.
Since Mark’s trip to London, each weekend they had made a point of either visiting Farnham and staying over for a night or else bringing Anne to stay with them in Petworth. Mark had added smallish amounts of deaths cap mushrooms, along with concoctions of ricin, thallium and crushed peach stones, to their, or rather her, evening meals and they had made sure Anne drank enough to mask any discomfort. It had been a strain having her around and having to encourage her to drink and smoke, but if anything Mark felt it had brought him and Gemma closer together, having a common goal and aim. And it was clear to see a general deterioration in Anne’s health. She looked thinner and greyer and complained of an almost constant stomach pain. It was strange but it eased Mark’s conscience that she also said she was having a great time and apparently felt years younger spending time with them. He had insisted they take Anne out drinking on a few of the weekend visits and she had obviously really enjoyed herself too. He’d said to Gemma it made it easier for him to rationalise things, to think there was something positive amidst the overall destruction, really. It had been the same with his mother-in-law years ago: seeing her enjoy herself had helped provided some kind of balance in his mind. He had always believed that it was all a case of equilibrium – short-term enjoyment, even hedonism, against long-term drudgery; quality versus quantity. For some reason, and somewhat elliptically, he mused that Pete Townshend had written that he hoped to die before he got old back in 1966, even if he was pushing middle age now and still going strong.
***
Dr Ferguson arrived shortly before lunch. Even though it was a Saturday he’d been at the surgery sorting through the usual backlog of paper work and prescriptions and offered to call on his way home. He’d become the family’s doctor soon after Anne and Jeffrey set up house in Farnham in the late ’fifties and had been a particular friend of Jeffrey’s before his death. Gemma remembered him calling around when she’d caught the usual round of childhood illnesses. In particular, she recalled his horn-rimmed glasses and her father sitting by her bed as the doctor moved the cold metal disc on the end of his stethoscope and listened to whatever was happening inside of her – the sound of her heart and lungs, she was told. He had looked old to her then, even though it had been his first practice, and she reckoned he must be well into his sixties now. Gemma greeted him with affection and told him to go straight up to her mother’s room. She said she’d have a cup of tea ready for him when he’d finished.
Dr Ferguson smiled at her reassuringly.
‘I know your mother’s not a well woman, Gemma, and she does herself no favours with her drinking and smoking, you know. And don’t you worry, you can call me whenever you need, after all your family are just about my most longstanding patients.’
As far as Mark could tell this was just about the ideal scenario. Dr Ferguson was unlikely to have kept himself bang up to date and from what he could tell probably had less sympathy for Anne than he would have had for Gemma’s father, or for Gemma herself. Also, as he’d been working by himself in the practice for years he wasn’t likely to have close contacts, or indeed any, with the doctors who had tended Mark’s in-laws in Brighton more than seven years ago now.
‘He’s great Gemma, just right, in fact. He’ll probably point to a generally unhealthy lifestyle and I can hint at some possibilities to him which might help when he has to do the death certificate.’
Gemma put the kettle on and opened a packet of biscuits, knowing the doctor would be happy for a natter. He came down after little more than ten minutes and deposited his medical bag on the table, a battered tan brown, soft leather affair that appeared to Gemma to be the same one he had brought to her bedroom when she had her bouts of measles or mumps years ago. He offered his prognosis.
‘Well, it could be a number of things, but she’s her own worst enemy. I even had to stop her having a cigarette when I was up there. Anyway, I think it could be a touch of pneumonia, possibly even something I’ve been reading up on called bronchopneumonia, so I’ll do you a prescription for penicillin.’
Mark couldn’t help himself.
‘Well we’ve been looking after her every weekend, but we’ve also taken her out and encouraged her to have a drink or two, just to see her enjoy herself. I hope that’s okay?’
‘I know, you two have been wonderful and it’s not your fault that Anne is the way she is, and there’s no harm in a few drinks as far as I’m concerned. In fact, she said how much she had enjoyed having you around recently. Actually, in these situations I have often found that the patient’s mental state is just as important as the physical, if not more so.’
This was exactly the sort of doctor they wanted.
‘Well, I was doing some reading, up doctor, and I was wondering if there might be a touch of hepatitis there too, affecting her liver maybe?’
Dr Ferguson absent-mindedly dipped a digestive into his cup of tea and nodded.
‘Um yes, not impossible, but there’s not much available for treating hepatitis as far as I know.’
Mark pushed on.
‘Yes, I heard that too and you’re right, apparently only steroids, or corticosteroids I think they’re called. Look, I hope you don’t mind me interfering?’
‘No, there’s no harm in you taking an interest and I’ll bear that in mind too. I must admit that it’s difficult to keep up with everything and run a busy practice at the same time. You know, it’s funny but after being a doctor here for many years I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s often nothing much wrong with most of my patients apart from the fact they’re getting old.’
They saw Dr Ferguson to his car – just as Mark would have expected, a leather-seated Rover 3500. Gemma managed to put on her best tearful expression and gave him a hug.
He rolled down the window as he left.
‘Now you call me whenever you need, and don’t worry, none of us is getting any younger.’
They walked back round the side of the house and into the kitchen.
‘He’s brilliant, just the kind of doctor we need.’
Gemma agreed.
‘And he’s a really sweetie too, he’d never believe we could be the cause. Maybe we should really get on with things now.’
That was just what Mark wanted to hear. He couldn’t quite believe how smoothly things seemed to be going; he felt almost apart from himself and what was happening, on a sort of roll. His excitement was almost palpable and the words came pouring out.
‘Yes, good idea, let’s get her down for lunch and I’ll add in a decent quantity of the castor beans. I found out last time that ricin is very difficult to detect anyway. Then she can come up to ours next weekend and maybe we can sort it all out for good around Christmas. I reckon ricin and maybe those mushroom bits you’ve got will help and I’ll add in some thallium as well. You know thallium is the best, it’s pretty common and the salt has no taste or colour or smell and is bloody difficult to detect because it seems to affect a few different parts of you simultaneously. Just about a gram would be enough to finish off someone in Anne’s condition and another good point is that it wouldn’t work straight away, could take maybe two or three days, Like I said, from what I can find out it’s very difficult to detect. Dr Ferguson would have no chance, we can hint at some suitable cause, I’ll look up a few possibilities next week.’
His obvious excitement took Gemma a little by surprise, even though it was exactly what she wanted too – Mark going for it and taking over. It was quite disturbing in some ways, the ease with which she’d got him to return to the very behaviour that had supposedly ruined his career and wasted six-plus years of his life. It gave her a definite sense of power too; and he had no idea that for her this was the start of things, the start of a new life which she had no intention of him being a part of. It wasn’t that she was going to abandon him altogether, she would make sure he got what he deserved for helping her out and meanwhile there was no harm in having some fun together. Gemma had always been pretty single-minded in terms of what she wanted and needed to do and when. Sure, she could play the part of lover, partner or accomplice and play it well, but that was all, a temporary necessity; it might even be pleasant enough but not forever. It wasn’t hatred or anything like that – just that she’d had enough of that part of her life. She wanted him to be happy too, but just not necessarily with her.
‘Yes good thinking, Mark. Let’s get her to spend next weekend at ours and we can come and stay here over Christmas and try to get it all finished then. There’s lots of room here and you’re right, the week between Christmas and New Year would be ideal. Dr Ferguson will be happy to get things done quickly and without too many questions, and so will the funeral people too.’
Gemma put her arms around Mark and kissed him.
‘I do fancy you when you take charge and spell out how you’re going to sort everything out. Let’s get back home after lunch, we don’t need to spend two nights here. We’ll make sure my mother’s comfy and I’ll leave her some sandwiches for tea. You can do what you want with me then.’
She hoped that, when it came down to it, letting him down gently might work but realistically was hardly confident it would. In fact, the way Mark had been recently, rather too needy and going on about their future together, she knew that was an absurdly optimistic expectation. Still, one thing at a time.
It had been a long day and quite a stressful last couple of weeks but as Gemma poured a final drink for herself and Mark, whisky for him and a glass of wine for her, she felt a glow of something akin to satisfaction. Everything had gone so smoothly and basically just as they had intended. The funeral that morning had been a very low-key affair: firstly a service at the crematorium in Aldershot, the nearest to Farnham, and then a small gathering at the family house in Lynch Lane. Ruth had come down from London along with a couple who had known Anne and Jeffrey when he had worked at the Cunard office in London. They had stayed until early evening. Dr Ferguson had come, along with his wife, there had been two of Anne’s golfing friends and a few of the neighbours who’d got to know Anne since the party there last September. And of course, and seemingly more upset than anyone, Edith, along with her husband. That had been a surprise to Gemma as she had never seen or even heard mention of a husband, but Alfred turned out to be a surprisingly chirpy character who insisted on telling everyone how her mother had depended on Edith for just about everything. Her uncle’s partner Joseph had sent a condolence card from Spain but had been too ill to travel.
Gemma pulled her armchair over to the French windows, next to Mark, and looked out over the patio and lawn and to the fruit trees beyond.
‘I’ll be glad to get rid of this house, it deserves to have someone living here who appreciates it. You know, I always dreamt of being part of a big family here, I even had an imaginary one when I was younger. It’s a shame to say but it was never the place it should have been for me, or my dad, and probably not for Mother either. I wonder how long it will all take to sort out.’
Mark reached across and put his hand on her arm.
‘I think that’s probably for the best. Yes, it is a lovely place and maybe does deserve better; we’ve done what we planned and it’s time to move on. I can’t believe how well it’s worked out; as well as the house, you’ve just got the odds and ends from the will to deal with and it’ll all be over. I’ll organise selling off any bits and pieces worth anything. And you’ve sorted your job out as well so don’t have to worry about that anymore.’
Gemma was pretty confident that the will and her legacy would be no problem. When Jeffrey was ill he and her mother had prepared a will that left everything to Anne herself and then, if and when she should die, to Gemma. There were no complications and no additions, she was sure of that; her mother probably had no intention of dying when it was drawn up. It had been useful that after her father died, over four years ago now, his side of the family had had virtually no contact with Anne or Gemma since then. As well as that Anne herself had been an only child and had no family left apart from Gemma. Anyway she knew it wasn’t going to be anything like in those films and plays where everyone gathered in the living room while the will was read out to the accompaniment of knowing looks, nods and groans; and with the finger of suspicion pointing directly to the main beneficiary.
‘Well I’m going to see the family’s solicitors next week, they’re based in South Street right in the centre of town and have been there for ages apparently. I phoned them and spoke to one of the directors I think, he said he’d actually known Jeffrey quite well and that he couldn’t foresee any problems; and I’m the executor as well, which is fine apparently. It’ll just take a few weeks to finalise details about her assets and do the paperwork and then we can put this place on the market.’
They sat back and listened to the rain splattering on the patio and outdoor table and chairs. Their feelings of relief, satisfaction almost, were tempered with a difficult to explain air of gloom. Mark broke the silence.
‘This might be our last night up here, it’ll be nice to get back to Petworth. We seem to have been away for ages and it’s been a bloody strain at times, but it’s worked out fine. Are you sure you’re okay with everything, Gemma? You must feel a bit weird.’
‘Yes, of course; you’ve sorted it all out brilliantly.’
Gemma asked Mark to light her a cigarette; she let the events of the past few days play back in her mind. She didn’t feel anything like remorse, she had done what she had felt was right, she had done it for herself and for her dad too.
***
Anne had died on Tuesday 29th December. Mark and Gemma had stayed over in Farnham for Christmas Day and Boxing Day and had made sure they had had plenty of heavy meals and lots to drink. In spite of the real reason for them being there it had been quite fun in a bizarrely black sort of way and Anne had obviously really enjoyed herself. Gemma had been quite happy to see that but it had no impact on her resolve; it was almost as if they were giving her mother one last hurrah and somehow it seemed to have made everything kind of easier. She could see what Mark had meant when he’d said it provided a weird form of rationalisation for it all.
Mark had stuck to his plan of adding a sizeable, and as it transpired fatal, amount of thallium salt to the Boxing Day dinner and they had gone back home on the Sunday afternoon. Just as they were getting ready to drive back on the Tuesday morning to see how she was, and to see if the thallium had done its business, Edith had phoned them in an evidently distressed state and said she couldn’t get Anne out of bed and feared the worse. Gemma had put her foot down and they got there within forty minutes and sure enough Anne was clearly dead and had been for a few hours at least.
Gemma had calmed Edith down as best she could and Mark called Dr Ferguson. He had come round straightaway and after examining Anne had signed the medical certificate and put down the cause as respiratory failure as a result of bronchopneumonia. It seemed a bit of a mish-mash of an explanation to Mark but he wasn’t about to complain. Dr Ferguson said how sorry he was but that it was perhaps not unexpected and told them to register the death at the Farnham register office and to get at least a couple of copies of the death certificate. Gemma had done that the next day and there’d been no comment when she’d said that they wanted the funeral as soon as practicable.
It certainly seemed to help that it all happened in the Christmas and New Year holiday period; it appeared as if everyone just wanted to move things along and to get on with a new year. The local funeral directors had called in with remarkable efficiency early on the Wednesday morning and it had all been planned and arranged with relatively little fuss. They were even able to fit in the funeral for the following week, particularly as Gemma said her mother had specified she didn’t want to be buried and a cremation was what they had agreed on. Edith had been more upset than anyone and Gemma resolved to make sure she gave her something when the will was finalised, maybe one or two of the vases as a keepsake and a few hundred pounds too.