There was a gratifying call at the office the next morning from the estate agent. Two of the couples who had seen the house had made definite offers. Both had offered under the asking price because — and the young man had to overcome considerable embarrassment to get the reason out — there was obviously work needed on the electrical wiring. One of the offers was a thousand pounds short, the other five hundred. Graham instructed the agent to accept the higher offer. The couple, it seemed, were currently living in rented accommodation and, since they had nowhere to sell, the young man looked forward to a speedy exchange of contracts.
Graham then consulted the Yellow Pages and rang round half a dozen Central London estate agents, asking them to send him details of two-bedroom service flats in their areas. He named as his maximum price the amount he had just accepted on the Boileau Avenue house. Without a mortgage to worry about, there was no need for him to try and save money.
Terry Sworder was out of the office communicating with one of his computers while this telephoning went on, and Graham took advantage of the young man’s absence (though why he should care what Terry Sworder thought, he didn’t quite know) to go out shopping.
Some of his purchases were self-indulgent, and others professional. (He found increasingly that plans for the murder were taking over the compartment of his mind which he had previously reserved for thoughts of work.)
He bought some sheets of sandpaper of different grades, a pair of rubber gloves and a Portsmouth Tide Table.
Then he went to Tottenham Court Road and bought a telephone answering machine. From there he got a Tube to Green Park, walked to Farlow’s in Pall Mall and had himself fitted with a pair of fishing waders.
He stopped at a travel agent and picked up some brochures for holidays on the Greek Islands and in the West Indies. At an off-licence he bought a bottle of Pernod, a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream and a bottle of Advocaat. In all these transactions he paid cash.
Finally, he caught the Tube to Victoria and deposited all his purchases in a left-luggage locker.
By then it was after twelve, so he got a cab back to the office. Robert Benham’s regular Tuesday squash court was always booked for twelve-thirty.
There were two glass-backed courts in the basement of the Crasoco tower. Graham walked casually past to check that Benham was playing. Yes, there he was, crouched and absorbed, his legs and arms surprisingly hairy. He played squash as he did everything else, with efficiency, aggression and total concentration.
Graham sauntered along to the changing-room. Play had just started on both courts, so there was no one there. Four sets of clothes hung from pegs.
He recognised Robert Benham’s leather-patched jacket and jeans immediately, and reached into the trouser pocket.
Good. As most people would, Benham had taken his wallet on to the court, but had not taken his bunch of keys. Graham flicked through them, found the one he wanted, wrote down its serial number and returned the bunch to the jeans.
Then he sauntered up to the canteen for lunch.
There was a little locksmith he’d noticed down off Carnaby Street and he went in there after lunch.
The man behind the counter was old, with bushy eyebrows.
‘Do you stock keys for Robson’s padlocks?’ asked Graham.
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve got one on our garage door,’ Graham lied glibly. ‘The wife’s only gone and lost the key. Dropped it down a drain, of all things. I ask you. I don’t want to have to saw it through. It’s a perfectly good padlock.’
‘Yes, I stock them. What’s the serial number?’
Graham gave it and the man produced a key.
Easy.
But as he walked out of the shop, Graham felt chastened. He mustn’t talk like that, must curb his high spirits. There was no need to make his lies so elaborate. That bit about his wife was unnecessary and, in the circumstances, stupid.
In an echo of some school sports master, he said to himself, ‘Careful, Marshall, careful.’
He met Stella that evening at a restaurant near Holland Park, which was neutral ground for them, and also well off the Crasoco employees’ circuit.
As they ordered coffee, the waiter asked, ‘Can I get you a liqueur, madam?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Stella. ‘I think I’ll have. . um. . Bailey’s Irish Cream, please.’
Good girl, thought Graham, good girl.