Free Lessons in Murder by Claire McNab

you?”
    “Of what?” said Bourke carefully.
    Sybil was openly scornful. “Why, of murdering my estranged husband.”
    “We didn’t mention murder. It might simply be an accident, or perhaps he took his own life. . .” Bourke let the sentence trail away suggestively.
    “Suicide? Tony suicide? You’ve got to be joking.”
    Bourke’s voice was pitched to show regretful sincerity. “Mrs. Quade, we have to consider every possibility. For example, one scenario could be that your husband murdered Bill Pagett, and then, after brooding for a couple of days, killed himself.”
    “Did Tony leave a note?”
    Did she hate him? thought Carol. How can she be so cold?
    “We haven’t found one,” said Bourke, “but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a note.”
    “Can I go?” asked Sybil. “I have classes to cover.”
    “Mrs. Quade,” said Carol as she reached the door.
    Sybil looked back at her. “I’m sorry to make this request, but you will need to make an identification of the body.”
    “When?”
    “As soon as possible. I’ll make the arrangements and inform you.”
    Sybil nodded, then said, “Will you take me?”
    “Of course,” said Carol.
     
    • • •
     
    Mrs. Farrell felt besieged. The discovery of Tony Quade’s body had revitalized the corps of reporters who had clustered around the school entrances since Bill Pagett’s death. She had run the gauntlet as she entered the school car park, resisting the unaccustomed temptation to mow down a shrill television personality. As it was, she had accidentally nudged the woman with the front of her car, a move that met with a howl of protest from the victim and the clicking of cameras from the rest. Now the Minister had instructed her to make a statement, and was sending a trusted representative to help her frame it.
    As she juggled with the preliminary outline, conscious that she had to project the correct image, say the correct things and basically give little, if any, information, one of the office staff brought in her mail. She sorted through it rapidly. Her hands suddenly stilled as she came upon a plain square envelope addressed in sloping printed capitals and marked ‘personal and private.’ It was identical to the ones she had been receiving, and destroying, over the past few months.
    She turned it in her hands. Destroy it unread? Give it to, the Inspector? To Sir Richard? Slowly she slit it open.
     
     
    They drove in silence, Sybil imagining an invisible string pulling the car towards the hideous thing waiting in a refrigerated cocoon for her to say, yes, I think that’s Tony. What would he look like? She took a deep breath.
    Carol glanced at her. “You okay?”
    “Yes.” Sybil turned resolutely to the beaches that unwound beneath the coast road. If only she was one of those distant figures lounging on the sand, lazily watching the Pacific lick the shore, concerned merely with the darkness of a tan. She took another deep breath, looking at Carol’s calm profile. “How do people usually behave when they . . . when they see someone’s body?” she asked. “I’m not sure what I’m asking . . . how long do I have to stay. . .”
    The green eyes considered her for a moment before returning to the road. “Only a short time. It will help you to just keep one thing in mind—to identify the person. Don’t think what happened, or about the past or future—just give yourself one task to accomplish, and ignore everything else.”
    “Will you be there?”
    “Of course. And don’t worry about fainting, or anything like that. It’ll all be over in a few moments.” Hearing her own soothing words, Carol felt like a hypocrite. She knew what Sybil was about to see: a person she remembered as vital and alive was now dead meat on a slab. She tried to see the smashed flesh, broken bones, dried blood through Sybil’s eyes. “Try to think about something else,” she said, knowing it was futile advice.
    After they left the beaches, the traffic became