Free William Walkers First Year of Marriage by Matt Rudd Page A

July
    Still no Sandra. Just the dull hum of computer radiation, the occasional squawk of the sandwich woman and the hammering and drilling of workmen in the office above. Thank the lord for the killer lamb.
Wednesday 13 July
    Sandra has been found dead at home with a man called Barry. She had been poisoned. Police are treating the circumstances as suspicious. I know this because the police are waiting to interview me when I arrive at work. The managing editor summons me to his office where two men from CID eye me suspiciously.
    ‘Routine inquiries at the moment, sir. You’re not under caution. Apparently, you had a problem with this poor widow?’
    ‘No, not really. She just rabbited on a lot.’
    The one who isn’t asking the questions writes something down in his notebook.
    ‘And you were overheard making threats?’
    ‘No, no, no, no, no, no, it was just because she was making such a meal out of the death of her goldfish.’
    ‘Her goldfish?’
    ‘Yes, she went on and on about it so much, I thought she was talking about her husband who I didn’t know at the time was already dead and when it turned out all the fuss was about the goldfish, I just muttered something about how I was surprised itwasn’t her husband. If I’d been her husband, I’d have killed myself by now. Or her. It was just a joke.’
    Neither of them is laughing.
    ‘Right, sir. That will be all for now. Not planning on leaving the country, are we, sir?’
    Still not laughing. Isabel finds it funny though. CCs me in on a group email to all her friends headed, ‘I married an axe-murderer.’
Thursday 14 July
    ‘We’ve had a tip-off that you repeatedly expressed the desire to crush Sandra with furniture, sir.’
    ‘I just said I wished a piano would fall on her head. It’s different.’
    ‘How is it different, sir?’
    ‘Well, crushing someone with furniture is quite, well, serious, whereas wishing a piano would fall on someone’s head is just, well, like a cartoon. And anyway, who told you that?’
    ‘I’m not at liberty to divulge sources, sir. Can you tell me where you were at around 8.30 p.m. on Saturday night?’
    ‘I was at home.’
    ‘Alone, I suppose, sir?’
    ‘Unusually, yes.’
    ‘That’s all for now, sir.’
    Isabel says she might have told a few friends about the piano but only because she thought it was quite funny. And not when she knew Sandra was dead and that I was a suspect. Which she also found funny. But together, perhaps, she realises they might not be that funny. She is adamant that none of her friends would snitch. It’s much more likely to be someone at the office: maybe the managing editor had a report about the piano death wish too? I’m not so adamant. Although no one sees it but me, Isabel does haveone friend who has something to gain from getting me locked up for the rest of my life.
Friday 15 July
    Toxicology results show it was the lamb that killed Sandra. A freak build-up of mercury. Total accident. No apology from the police who still can’t accept that wishing someone might be squashed by a piano doesn’t count.
    Back from work, Isabel late at hers so, if I’m lucky, I have time for an illicit but well-earned hot bath and whisky. The least I deserve after being ruled out of a murder inquiry. I’m not lucky. The car has been stolen. The bath is obviously out of the question. Who would steal an M-reg Vauxhall Corsa with 89,892 miles on the clock? Why didn’t they steal the BMW parked next to it? I call the police and it turns out Islington council has stolen it. I phone the number they give me.
    ‘Car pound.’
    ‘I think you have stolen my car.’
    ‘Registration?’
    ‘M-seven-three-nine DGH.’
    ‘M?’
    ‘M-seven-three-nine D—’
    ‘M-seven…’
    Ten minutes later…
    ‘Yeah, mate, towed at half four.’
    ‘On what grounds?’
    Tap, tap, tap.
    ‘Got a ticket at half three, dinnit.’
    ‘On what grounds?’
    Tap, tap, tap…I can tell he’s typing with one finger.
    ‘Yellar