James Munro - The man who sold death

In April 1961, on a cold, clear Sunday morning, Charlie Green went to start his brother-in-law's car. The idea pleased Charlie, who owned but had not finished paying for a motor scooter. His brother-in-law's car was a Bristol; it had eight cylinders and disk brakes. To hold its wheel, to put your foot on its accelerator, was to know power; to deal, if the fates willed it, in death. Charlie, opulent in a fifty-guinea suit and hand-made shoes that his brother-in-law had grown tired of, opened the back door of the house and stepped into the garden. This was the northeast of England, and it was cold. The wind blew bitterly and persistently, retaining still the spiteful zest it had picked up in Siberia, and overhead a seagull planed and screeched complaint to the skies. Charlie shivered, and hurried to the garage.

Its door swung open easily, and for the thousandth time Charlie admired what he saw inside; the car, gleaming with wax, the neat tool racks, the workbench, even the inspection pit. It all meant money. His sister had done all right for herself, he thought, and so, in his modest way, had Charlie. With a brother-in-law like his, you need lack for nothing. Rich-and generous with it. A rare combination, very rare. The garage was warm-a small spirit stove glowed in the corner-and Charlie decided to leave it on. It was nice to be warm, and comfortable, and secure. He opened the car door and got inside, then fussed in his pockets until he found the key on its thin silver chain. He put the key in the ignition and sat happily, imagining with what grace and skill he would drive the big, warm, beautiful car. Life, he thought, is good. Then he switched on.

The explosion wrecked the car completely, and blew

the side out of the garage. It transformed Charlie Green from a man dreaming of happiness into raw and hideous meat. Then it started a fire, and Charlie Green could not be recognized ever again. It hurled bricks and lumps of wood, too, a great distance, scarring the paintwork of his brother-in-law's house, cracking the panels in its doors, smashing such windows as were not shattered by blast. One brick burst through to hit Charlie Green's sister on the head, knocking her unconscious to the floor, where a long sliver of glass lay embedded like a sword.

Charlie Green's brother-in-law had been working in bis orchard, a grove of apple trees fifty yards from the house. To him the explosion was an outrage, a sound of such enormity that he felt at first stunned, then sick. He dropped the saw he had been using and ran, past the burning garage, into the house, crouching as he went as if to escape another terrible blast of noise. Inside he stopped to look at his wife, from whose mouth a thin trickle of blood was running, and touched her pulse, which was slow and uneven. She lay with one leg bent, exposing the top of her stocking and the paleness of her naked thigh. Gently the man pulled down the hem of her skirt; conscious, she would never have lain in an attitude so abandoned. He walked past her to a small room on the ground floor, his study, opened a cupboard, and took from it a briefcase, a small suitcase, and a Luger automatic pistol, then put on his brother-in-law's duffle coat on top of the overalls and sweater he had worn to prune his trees.

He hesitated, and turned again to his wife, but when the telephone rang he fled, crouching, to Charlie Green's scooter, shoved the cases into its panniers, and kicked it into life. His house was a quarter of a mile away from his nearest neighbor's, and no one saw him. He called the police and ambulance from a phone booth, and by the time they arrived, he had traveled five miles. When his wife was admitted to the hospital he had reached Newcastle and the Al. He turned off it south of York, sought and found a deserted road. Houses far away, warm with the wealth of Sunday, and he drove along a narrow road, deep ditches on each side, with a cart track leading to it through empty fields.

He propped the scooter against a wooden platform for milk churns, and pondered on how to destroy it. At last he made a fuse from the lining of Charlie's duffle coat, soaked it in gasoline, left it in the tank, lit it, and ran, taking his cases with him, and his gun. Again an explosion shocked him, but he ran even faster. A bus took him back to York, and he found that he was hungry. He ate at the station buffet-pie and sandwiches, strong brown tea-with the soldiers, the maintenance men, the four youths with guitars, who traveled on Sundays because they had no choice. Like him. His train was late, and he was once more afraid. When it came he found an empty carriage and sat very still, watching the window. He stayed like that all the way to King's Cross.

Detective Inspector Marshall called at the hospital and went to look at the woman. Brady was the surgeon attending her, short and squat, utterly Geordie, with a face like a chimpanzee's, ugly, mischievous, and charming. Marshall had never been at ease with Brady.

"Severe concussion," Brady said. "Hit by a brick and the brick was moving. She's not dead yet, not by any means, but whether she'll ever remember anything-" He shrugged.

Marshall looked at the still figure on the bed, the face as white as bone.

"When will she be conscious?" he asked. Brady shrugged again.

"Maybe this afternoon, maybe never. She's been out twenty-four hours as it is. They had one in the Midlands somewhere-she was out for fifteen months, then she died. Never regained consciousness." He looked at the woman again. "Silly old bag."

Marshall stared at him, surprised.

"In my business it doesn't do to be hypocritical," said Brady. "Did you know her?" "No," said Marshall. _

"She was on all the committees," Brady said. "Leprosy, Save the Children, Mayoress's Charities. None of my wives could stand her."

Brady, who regarded marriage as an ideal capable of ultimate achievement, had been married three times.

"Full of her social importance," said Brady. "Always introduced herself as 'Mrs. John Craig-my husband's in shipping, you know.' "

Marshall said, "So he was. He managed the Rose Line. Six tramps. Go anywhere, load anything."

"He played bridge, too," said Brady. "And poker."

"Good?" asked Marshall.

Brady nodded. "Mind like a computer and no nerves at all," he said. "Working for Gunter, he'd need them both. You seen him yet?"

"No," said Marshall. "That's another treat I've got coming."

Brady stuffed his stethoscope in his pocket and offered Marshall a cigarette.

"Why would anybody do a thing like that?" he asked.

Marshall said, "No reason at all, so far. But they did. If we knew why-"

"Dynamite," said Brady. "Who would dynamite poor Craig?"

Marshall started to say something, then hesitated.

"Let me know if you find out," he said at last. "I'll be with Sir Geoffrey."

Brady looked in disgust at the figure on the bed. Typical of him, thought Marshall. He'll work like a mule to keep her alive, yet he can't stand the sight of her.

"Her now," said Brady. "I could understand anybody killing her. Pompous bitch." His voice changed to a parody of a half-educated, middle-class woman's, mellow with self-esteem, firm with ignorance. "My husband is an associate of Sir Geoffrey's, you know. Such a dear, sweet man. In these days one is fortunate to find a colleague who has any breeding at all. My husband has been lucky." Brady scowled. "And poor old John sitting there and taking it and never daring to argue."

"Why not?" asked Marshall.

"Because she'd just have kept on going," Brady said. "She was improving him. Making him mix with the right sort of people, wear the right clothes, use the right voice. It didn't matter that he was the one who did all the work in the firm. You can't argue with women like that.