When I first met Brenda, she never mentioned Sam; and I, for some reason, just assumed she was either divorced or widowed. And the way she came on to me wasn’t exactly like a married woman. Or, I should say, it wasn’t like a happily married woman - which she certainly wasn’t. It was only later that she told me about her husband – when we were just getting to know each other better.
“What! Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I exclaimed.
“If I had, would you be here now? Your young, firm, fabulous body lying in bed next to mine? You’d have run a mile.”
My expression was one of utter denial. But she was right, of course. I’d have stayed well away from the wife of Sir Samuel Maxwell-Smith, the famous multi-billionaire who spent more on wine in a month than I earned as a journalist. But I wasn’t ready for what was coming next.
“Kill Sam - your husband? You must be mad! But why?”
“How long have you got?” And she proceeded to tell me everything about him. At the end of the monologue, it was no longer ‘why would you want Sam dead?’ but ‘why on Earth did you marry him?’
“Oh, I don’t know... I was young, impressionable. I hadn’t been away from home for very long. And he was always the centre of attention - always told a good story. People did genuinely like him twenty years ago - before the fame and the knighthood.”
And then there was the money.
“He wasn’t rich at first - not when I met him. It was only later when his investments paid off. Then we were rolling in it - big houses, fabulous cars - even our own private jet. It was all worth it then.”
“But now?”
“No woman can stay in a relationship without love - no matter how many cars, boats and holidays abroad you throw in. Unless of course you’re shallower than a kid’s paddling pool.” But that was certainly not Brenda.
I made the obvious suggestion - obvious to a man, that is. To a woman like Brenda it was completely insane. “What, divorce Sam and lose everything?” I was going to say something about keeping her self-respect, but thought better of it.
The next day, I hoped her murderous notion would be forgotten. I’d put her mood down to the drink and a bad day with Sam. Yes, Sam. That had changed everything for me. One moment I’m totally besotted with an angel that’s wandered into my life, the next I’m sharing Bathsheba with her husband. And though they’d stopped having sex long ago (so she told me), I couldn’t get it out of my head that I was always going to be the clandestine partner - the one whose name could never be spoken. Me, along with Macbeth and Beelzebub. And she was always going to have murder on her mind - and I didn’t like that... not one bit. I wanted to have Brenda all to myself, without Sir Samuel in the picture.
So when we met up for cognac and carnal love in her Chelsea flat, and I discovered that Brenda was more adamant that ever about the idea of disposing of the man who had gone well past his sell-by date, I was starting to come round to her way of thinking. After all, he was already old, he was despised by humanity, and he was obscenely rich - probably at the expense of starving children in Africa. Yes, this man had to go - and I was the one to do it. Brenda’s mood changed as soon as I capitulated; and the great sex afterwards convinced me that this was the right decision.
The following day she breezed into my Fleet Street office without a care in the World, and a broad smile on her face.
“We’re going away to the Algarve for a fortnight… and that’s when I want you to do it.” I looked round to see who was listening. Jenny and Phil were close by, and were looking straight at me, awaiting my response. So was I.
“It being?”
“The article of course. The richest man in Britain and his twenty-five year marriage to ex-dancer Brenda Evans. Their final holiday in the Algarve...” I nearly choked on my coffee.
“F-final...?”
“Oh yes, I’m bored with Europe - the Caribbean is so much more vibrant.” She was playing with me now, and I was just a mouse confronted by a tiger. But I was in love.
“Right! Yes, the article… the Algarve. Sorry, I thought that was next month. No problem Lady Maxwell, I’ll arrange it with my editor.”
I recovered my composure, and Jenny and Phil turned back to their work. I firmly led Brenda down to the canteen, which was deserted at that time of the morning.
“What’s going on, Brenda? What the hell was that all about?”
“Relax, David - it’s all part of my plan.”
Brenda’s plan was simple: she wanted to stage Sam’s death as an accident - an accident that could never, ever be interpreted as murder. She told me Sam had a heart problem and needed medication to normalise his condition. She planned to substitute his usual medicine with sugar pills, and then get him really worked up, really angry about something. He would then take the placebo, and have a massive coronary. At his age, it would be fatal.
And this is where I came in. I would interview Sam in his apartment in Praia da Rocha, Portugal, and act as the probing, jibing journalist, à la Jeremy Paxman. Brenda suggested tackling him on blood sports. He was a strong advocate and supporter of fox-hunting and spoke at several rallies and on television. But I wasn’t convinced.
“But how can you be sure this will work? I mean, people often recover from heart attacks.”
“Yes, I know. But Sam’s already had two this year. He’s not going to survive another - not without his medication.”
So it was all set up. I got the go-ahead from my boss to interview Sir Samuel Maxwell-Smith for the Sunday supplement, and flew from Gatwick to Faro on the Monday morning flight. Brenda arranged everything with Sam, who hadn’t been keen at first. But when he heard my name, his mood changed completely. My reputation couldn’t be as bad as I thought.
*
On Tuesday I met Sam on the balcony of his tenth-floor luxury apartment. I’d seen his pictures dozens of times - in newspapers, on television - but he looked much older than the photographs. Older and tired. Perhaps he was fed up of this life and longed to leave it? I hoped so - it would make me feel much better about what I was about to do.
In the warm April sunshine, I set up my phone and began the interview. It started politely and amicably. We talked about his knighthood, meeting the Queen and his wine and art collections - then I went for the jugular.
“I’ve read about your position on fox-hunting. Are you familiar with the recent research by American academics that correlates the abuse of animals with serial killers?”
Sam looked at me squarely, not blinking. He didn’t seem at all phased by the question. Rather, he stared at me like a cold-blooded hunter with his eyes on his prey.
“I’d rather talk about why you’re screwing my wife.”
I was stunned. My heart began pumping quickly, my mind racing - searching for an answer, for a way out. He picked up his whisky, took a sip, and returned to stare at me, awaiting a reply. Then he spoke again.
“I’ve been following your little exploits for months now. You think you’re so bloody clever, you and that slut of a wife, with the flat in Chelsea she thinks I know nothing about.” He pulled out some photographs from his jacket pocket and threw them on the table. “But she’s wrong.” The two pictures that landed in front of me said everything: Brenda and me, side-by-side in all our nakedness together. I was speechless. Sam continued.
“I could ruin your career with just one phone call - and I don’t even need photographs to do it.” He paused for a moment, sitting back in his chair. “I’ll give you fifty thousand pounds to stop seeing her again - ever.”
Things were definitely not going to plan. Fifty thousand pounds was a lot of money to someone like me - nothing to Sam. But to never see Brenda again? I just had to get out of there - I had to tell Brenda about the photographs, about Sam knowing. I switched off the recorder and hurriedly picked up my notepad and pen. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. As I made for the door, he called after me.
“You really haven’t an option: fifty thous
and pounds or you’ll never work in journalism again.”
I opened the door, paused, then said, “I love her... and I’m not letting her go.” And I was gone - straight back to my apartment to phone Brenda.
I tried all evening to speak to her, but only got her voicemail. I didn’t want to leave a message in case she was with Sam, so I phoned the airport instead, and discovered that the first available flight back to London was the next day. I packed everything and had a very restless night, eventually falling asleep watching a very depressing film in Portuguese.
The next morning, the television was still on and I changed the programme to BBC News 24 - the thing I always watch in the morning. Sam’s photograph was there, and I turned up the sound.
‘The multi-billionaire Sir Samuel Maxwell-Smith was found dead yesterday in the Algarve, after falling from the balcony of his tenth floor apartment in Praia da Rocha. The British Special Branch is assisting the Portuguese authorities in their investigations into his death, which is not thought to be accidental…’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I scrambled to get my mobile phone and desperately tried to phone Brenda. What was going on? But just as the phone switched to voicemail again, there was a knock at the door.
“Senõr Green, we are investigating the death of Sir Samuel Maxwell-Smith, and we believe you may be able to assist us with our enquiries. Would you mind coming with us to the Police Station? Oh, and we will need your notebook and tape recorder.”
I’d been set up - I must have been. But all I could do was grab my things and go with the police officers to the station at Portimão, where I am now.
I didn’t do it, of course. But I know who did: Brenda. The heart condition was no more than a ruse. She pushed Sam over the balcony - or got someone else to do it - and now I’ve taken the fall.
End of Statement. David Green, 27 April, 2011, 3.30 pm.
* * *
The University of Roger
Dave and Roddy in a bar in Yorkshire, England.
Dave: D’you know who I saw last week?
Rod: No, who?
Dave: Roger.
Rod: Oh god - not Roger! What did he say?
Dave: Nothing. He just came in and plonked himself down on a chair next to me.
Rod: Well he is a bit of a plonker.
Dave: That’s what I said. Well, not to him of course - to his mum.
Rod: Gloria?
Dave: Yes.
Rod: What was she doing there?
Dave: Oh, nothing really. She just came to tell me that Roger’s going to University.
Rod: Get away.
Dave: Yeah, that’s what she said. She thought getting away would do him good.
Rod: What’s he going to study?
Dave: Prawnography.
Rod: Yer what?
Dave: Prawnography. Apparently it’s the study of seafood. He’s combining that with Rocket Science.
Rod: Oh yeah, what’s that: the study of green salad?
Dave: No, rockets - astronautics and all that. Anyway, I can’t see him surviving as a student, can you?
Rod: No, not really… not till he matures a bit. He can’t hold his drink, I can’t understand a word he’s saying, and he’s always falling asleep. It was hard enough for us to stay awake at Uni.
Dave: Speak for yourself!
Rod: I mean staying awake at lectures - not at the bar.
Dave: Oh, right - I’d forgotten about lectures. They did spoil things a bit, didn’t they? But hey, remember those nights in the Student Union - what a laugh we had!
Rod: I’d rather not talk about that, Dave.
Dave: Come on, it was fun. And your scars have almost healed now. Well, the physical ones anyway...
Rod: I said I didn’t want to talk about it, okay?
Dave: All right, all right - keep your hair on. Nobody meant any harm. How did we know you’d doused your head in alcohol when Pete took out his lighter?
Rod: Jenny said it was standing up...
Dave: Perhaps you should have sat down then?
Rod: My hair - Jenny said my hair was standing on end and looked ridiculous. She said alcohol would do the trick...
Dave: Mmm... smoking probably wasn’t such a good idea then?
Rod: I didn’t think... I was a bit drunk.
Dave: A bit? You tried to kiss Wendy at least twice.
Rod: So?
Dave: Wendy – Jenny’s Labrador, remember?
Rod: Oh Right - that Wendy. (Pause.) It does make you worry about Roger though, doesn’t it? What Uni is he going to?
Dave: Gloria says it’s the ‘University of Life’.
Rod: Oh, Barnsley then?
Dave: Yep.
Rod: I envy him in many ways, y’know. Being young again - your whole life ahead of you...
Dave: Getting drunk every night...
Rod: Gate crashing parties...
Dave: Throwing up fish suppers...
Rod: Water fights in the refectory...
Dave: Chucking meat-balls at the kitchen staff...
Rod: Mmm... childish really. But you’re only young once. How old’s Roger now, by the way?
Dave: Two and a half.
Rod: Well, he should fit in nicely then.
* * *
Organized Intimidation
Beth Brown, fifty-nine years old and looking more like her mother every year, came downstairs to the kitchen where her husband had been working. She was clutching her prize poodle, Ben.
“Jack! Get that greasy rag out of my sink. How many times do I have to tell you? It’s a disgrace - it really is.” Beth turned to Ben, kissing him on the nose.
“Daddy is so naughty with his dirty, dirty rags - isn’t he Ben?”
Ben began licking Beth vigorously on the cheeks, while Jack sullenly took the oil-spoiled cloth from the sink and sidled off to the garage, saying nothing as usual.
He used to talk back to Beth - but it only made things worse. The more he defended himself, the more vicious the attack. ‘Organized Intimidation,’ he called it. What had he done to deserve this? When they first got married, it was all wine and roses. She was a different woman then, and probably would have washed and ironed the dirtiest of rags lovingly for him. And he was a different man too. He certainly wouldn’t have left his oily cloth in the kitchen sink - he would have been more considerate than that. But now he didn’t care anymore. If it rankled her, so much the better.
What did she really want from him now? There was no lovemaking - that ended several years ago, ever since Jack took early retirement. And thinking about it, that was probably the turning point in their relationship. He was always home, and they spent so much time in each other’s company, loving had turned to loathing.
Couldn’t she just leave him alone now? Whatever he suggested, she contradicted. Whatever he thought was right, she thought was wrong. If he said it was going to be a fine day, she’d say ‘It’ll probably rain’. If he suggested going out for the night together, she’d say: “What, with my arthritis? You must be mad.” But she still managed her nights out with the Bridge Club. It was one bout of intimidation after another - a terror campaign that she was determined to win - and there were no two ways about it: it had to be her way.
A few days later, Beth took a taxi into town to buy her groceries. Jack would normally drive her there once her week - and put up with her complaining about the price of tomatoes and everything else; but that morning he said he had a terrible headache and stomach upset and just wasn’t up to driving into town. He would stay in bed instead, he said, adding, “Don’t worry about me,” knowing that she wouldn’t.
After an exhausting day at the supermarket, Beth returned home in a taxi, struggling with the shopping, huffing and puffing.
“Well... that - was - a - nightmare - a bloody nightmare. I’m not doing it again - my hip is causing me agony.”
; Then she stopped in her tracks, dropping the four heavy bags on the floor - staring in disbelief at the wall in front of her. Written in bright red paint on the green living room wallpaper were the words:
“We’ve got him. £30,000 - or you’ll never see him again. Don’t call the Police or he’s a gonna.”
Terrifying images flashed through Beth’s mind and she ran out into the garden. But there lying sleepily in the sun was Ben. She picked him up lovingly, stroking him quickly.
“Oh Ben, I thought they’d got you - but it was just a sick joke by some naughty, naughty people.” Then another thought occurred to her. Where was Jack? If someone was trying to steal Ben, surely he must have heard something. She went back into the house and shouted upstairs towards the bedroom.
“Jack, Jack - who did this in the living room - who was it? Have you called the Police?” There was no answer. Typical, she thought. Always there when you don’t want him, and never available when he’s needed; just like it used to be in bed. She struggled upstairs, still holding Ben. Jack must be asleep - but she’d soon wake him up.
But in the bedroom, she gasped in horror for a second time as she found everything in a complete shambles. Drawers pulled out, clothes scattered everywhere, ornaments broken.
“Oh no!” She gasped, her eyes falling on her empty jewellery box on the floor. She dropped to her knees, desperately looking for the valuable jewels; but they were nowhere to be found. And where was Jack? For a moment all her anger was directed towards her husband - the usual suspect. She stood up angrily.
“Jack!” She shouted at the top of her voice.
There was no reply. And then it suddenly dawned on her - the message on the living room wall: they’d taken Jack. But why - why would anyone want him? She just couldn’t understand it. And thirty thousand pounds…? Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the telephone. Beth froze for a moment: was it them?
She picked up the bedroom phone, putting the receiver to her ear, shaking. A gruff voice with a foreign accent was on the other end. “Bring the money tonight, in a brown paper bag. Leave it behind the drainpipe in the alley next to the Chip Shop in Victoria Road.”