The Detection Collection. Simon Brett

carrying his stomach high, red-faced, loud-voiced, the black hair sleeked back. I could see that he was deferred to. He was the Wingco, Keith Manston-Green, prosperous businessman, provider of jobs and silver cups, slapper of backs, dispenser of free drinks.

      And then I saw Shirley May, his second wife, drinking with her cronies at the bar. Shirley May. She was always called by that double first name, and behind her husband’s back I occasionally caught their salacious whispers, ‘Shirley May, but on the other hand, she may not!’ He had got his trophy wife, blonde, though obviously not naturally so, voluptuous, long-legged, a second-hand film-star vision of feminine desirability. Even to look at her, standing at the club bar flirting with a group of bemused fools, made me sick. It was then that I first began to see how I might kill her husband. And not only kill him, but make him suffer over months of protracted agony, just as he had made me suffer for years. The revenge wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be as close as I could get.

      The months I spent leading up to action had to be carefully planned. Firstly, it was important that Manston-Green did not see me, or at least not close enough to recognise me, and that he never heard even my false name. That wasn’t difficult. He played only at weekends and in the evenings; I chose Wednesday mornings. Even when our visits had coincided, the Wingco was far too important to cast his eyes on undistinguished temporary players only permitted on the greens because their fees were needed. It was important, too, that I didn’t become even remotely interesting to other members. It was necessary to play badly, and on the few occasions that someone condescended to partner me, I played badly. That took some skill: I naturally have a very good eye. I had my story ready. I had an elderly and ailing mother living in the neighbourhood and was paying occasional dutiful visits. I embarked on boring descriptions of her symptoms and prognosis and would watch their eyes glazing over as they edged away. I kept my appearances infrequent; I did not want to become an object of gossip and curiosity even if both were dismissive. I needed to be too anonymous even to be regarded as the club bore.

      Firstly, I needed a key to the clubhouse. For a locksmith that wasn’t difficult. By careful watching I discovered that three people had keys, Manston-Green, the club secretary Bill Caraway, and the pro, Alistair McFee. McFee’s was the easiest to get my hands on. He kept it in the pocket of his jacket which he invariably hung on the door of his office. I bided my time until, one Wednesday morning when he was occupied on the first green with a particularly demanding pupil, with gloved hands I took the key from his pocket and, locking myself in the lavatory, took an impression. On my next visit, surreptitiously, I tested the key. It worked.

      I then began the second part of my campaign. Late at night, alone in my London office and wearing gloves, I cut out words from the national newspapers and pasted them on to a sheet of writing paper, the kind sold in every stationer’s shop. The message, which I sent twice weekly, had small variations of wording but always the same insinuating poison. Why did you marry that bitch? Don’t you know she’s having it off with someone else? Are you blind or something? Don’t you know what Shirley May’s up to? I don’t like to see a decent man cheated. You should keep an eye on your wife.

      Oh, they had their effect. On subsequent visits to the golf club when, carefully distanced, I watched them together, I knew that my carefully calculated strategy was working. There were public quarrels. Members of the club began to edge away when they were together. The Wingco was rattled – and so, of course, was she. I gave that marriage no more than two months. Which meant that I couldn’t delay.

      I fixed the actual date two weeks ahead. Only one other thing was necessary. I made sure that the new clubs I purchased were the same make as his, a necessary extravagance. I substituted my driver for his driver, handling it always with gloves. It was his prints I wanted, not mine. I made sure my final messages were received on the morning of the crucial day, his by post, hers pushed under the door when, watching, I saw him drive away for work. Hers said, If you want to know who’s sending these notes, meet me in the clubhouse at nine tonight. Burn this note. A friend. His said the same, but gave a time ten minutes later.

      I realised, of course, that neither might come. That was a risk I took. But if they didn’t, I would be in no danger. It would simply mean that I needed to find another way of killing Manston-Green. I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. My plan was so perfect, the horror I had planned for him so wonderfully satisfying.

      I won’t distress you with details; they are not necessary. I had my keys to the clubhouse and I was waiting for her, her husband’s driver in hand. As I said, I have a good eye. It took only two swings to kill her, three more to batter her face into a pulp. I dropped the driver, let myself out and locked the door. There was a public phone box at the end of the lane. When I asked for the police I was put through promptly and without trouble. I disguised my voice although it wasn’t strictly necessary. It became the confused, high-pitched, terrified voice of an older man.

      ‘I’ve just passed the golf club. There’s screaming in the clubhouse. A woman. I think someone’s killing her.’

      ‘And your name and address, sir?’

      ‘No, no. I’m not getting mixed up in this. It’s nothing to do with me. I just thought I ought to let you know.’ And with gloved hands I rang off.

      They came, of course. They came just in time to see Manston-Green bending over his wife’s body. I couldn’t have planned that. I imagined they might have been late but would still have had the club with her blood and matted hair, the fingerprints, the evidence of quarrels. But they weren’t late; they were just in time.

      I resisted the temptation to go to the trial. It was irritating to have to forego that pleasure, but I thought it prudent. Press photographs were being taken of the crowd, and although the chance of being recognised was infinitesimally small, why risk it? And I thought it sensible to continue going occasionally to the golf club, but less frequently. The talk was all of the murder, but no one bothered to include me. I took my solitary lessons and departed. He appealed, of course, and that was an anxious day for me. But the appeal failed and I knew that the end was now certain.

      There were only three weeks between sentence and execution and they were probably the happiest of my life, not in the sense of an exultant joy, but of knowing myself at peace for the first time since I’d started at St Chad’s. The week before the execution I was with him in spirit through every minute of every hour in that condemned cell. I knew what would happen on the morning when he would be launched out of this world and out of my mind. I pictured the arrival of the executioner the day before to fulfil Home Office requirements: the dropping of a sandbag in the presence of the governor to make sure that there would be no mishap and that the length of the drop was correct. I was with him as he peered through the spy-hole in the door of the condemned cell, a cell only feet away from the execution chamber. It’s a merciful death if not mishandled and I knew Manston-Green would die with less pain than probably would I. The suffering was in the preceding weeks and no one could truly experience that horror but he. In imagination I lived his last night, the restless turning and twisting, the strengthening light of the dreaded day, the breakfast he wouldn’t be able to eat, the clumsy kindness of the constantly watching guards. I was with the hangman in imagination when he pinned Manston-Green’s arms. I was part of that little procession which passed through the dreaded door, the white-faced governor of the prison present, the chaplain keeping his eyes on his prayer book held in shaking hands.

      It’s a quick death, only some twenty seconds from the moment the arms are pinioned to the drop itself. But there would be one moment when he would be able to see the scaffold, the noose hanging precisely at the level of his chest before the white hood was pulled into place. I exulted at the thought of those few seconds.

      As usual I went to the prison the day before the execution. There were things to be done, instructions to be followed. I was greeted politely but I wasn’t welcome. I knew they felt contaminated when they shook my hand. And every prisoner in every cell knew that I was there. Already there was the expected din, shouting voices, utensils banged against the cell doors. A little crowd of protesters or morbid voyeurs was already collecting outside the prison gate. I am a meticulous craftsman, as was my father before me. I am highly experienced in my part-time job. And I think he knew me. Oh yes, he knew me. I saw the recognition in his