Free Trading Reality by Michael Ridpath

happened?’
    ‘He was murdered. Last night. At his house.’
    There was silence at the other end of the phone. I heard a whispered ‘Oh God’. With a jolt, I suddenly realised that I would get no support from Karen this morning, she would need support herself. I wouldn’t be the only person grieving Richard, just one of many.
    ‘How?’
    I told her. The tears came. I could hear her weeping and sniffing four hundred miles away. ‘Karen, Karen. It’s all right,’ I said uselessly. I heard her try to speak, but she couldn’t. The sobs became uncontrolled, as though she was having trouble breathing.
    Suddenly, I heard her mother’s crisp voice, ‘I don’t know what you’ve said to Karen, but it has upset her. Now goodbye,’ and the phone went dead.
    The old cow! I would call Karen back later, when she had calmed down.
    The next call was going to be even more difficult. I dialled the number.
    It took several rings before there was an answer. ‘Frances Fairfax.’
    I didn’t recognise the voice. It was a woman’s voice, a young woman’s voice. I felt cold. This was the woman who had torn my family apart.
    ‘Can I speak to Dr Fairfax?’
    ‘May I say who’s calling?’
    ‘It’s his son.’
    ‘Oh, Richard. It doesn’t sound like you.’
    ‘It isn’t,’ I said grimly.
    There was silence as she fetched my father.
    ‘Mark?’ Hearing his voice gave me a jolt. It sounded the same, only different. There was a guttural hoarseness that had not been there before. The voice of a man approaching sixty.
    ‘Hello? Is that Mark?’
    ‘Yes, Dad. Yes, it’s Mark.’
    ‘How are you? It’s good to hear your voice.’ He did sound pleased to hear from me.
    There was so much I wanted to say to him. But keep it brief.
    ‘I have bad news, Dad.’
    ‘Yes?’ The enthusiasm disappeared. It was replaced by fear.
    ‘Richard’s dead,’ I blurted.
    Silence. ‘Oh, no! Um . . . What happened?’
    ‘He was killed.’ Silence. ‘Murdered.’
    ‘God. When?’
    ‘Last night.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘He was hit on the head. I found him lying in the boathouse. He . . .’ The image of Richard’s shattered skull flashed back before my eyes. I couldn’t continue. I took a few deep breaths. ‘I just thought you ought to know,’ I finished.
    ‘Yes, thanks for telling me.’ My father’s voice had suddenly aged another ten years. I wanted to share my grief with him, but it was impossible. Too much, all in one phone call.
    ‘There will be things to sort out,’ I said. ‘Funeral, the will, that sort of thing. His house. FairSystems. His bits and pieces.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ll do it.’
    ‘No, it’s all right. I can do it.’
    ‘Please, Dad. Please, let me deal with it. I’m here in Kirkhaven now.’
    ‘I’ll come up as well.’
    ‘No!’ I said sharply. That, I couldn’t handle. ‘Look, I’ll sort everything out, and you can come up for the funeral. We can talk things over then.’
    A pause. ‘OK, Mark, we’ll do it that way if you like.’
    ‘All right then. Goodbye.’
    ‘Goodbye.’
    I stared at the phone. I was glad Richard had made peace with my father. We hadn’t spoken for ten years. How would he have felt if I had died? More to the point, how would I feel if he died?
    Morbid thoughts. Not surprising. After all, someone had been killed. Some bastard had cold-bloodedly murdered my brother! I knew that most murderers were caught. I hoped to God they caught this one.
    There was a knock at the door. It was the sergeant from the night before. He looked tired, but his uniform was immaculately pressed.
    ‘Mr Fairfax? Could you come with me to the station, please, sir. It’s probably easier to talk there than here.’
    That wasn’t really true. Kirkhaven’s police station was tiny, being not much more than a corral of portakabins. There was plenty of activity. Cars were pulling up, spilling policemen out into the tiny car park. Some wore uniforms, many didn’t.
    I was ushered into a cramped little office.