Harry stood in the doorway, his jackdaw black suit hugging him like a second skin, a bunch of flowers dangling from almost limp fingers.
Two nights away. A conference in Bournemouth. Thirty blokes getting drunk and talking about writing down expenses. From day one, he just wanted to get home to his wife, Sarah. He spoke to her last night in the casual terms of long familiarity.
“Love you.”
“Love you, three.”
Fresh streaks of blood lined the carpet. Her bare legs stuck out from behind the hallway wall, a carving knife buried hilt-deep in the living room door. Quick strides and he was there, staring at the carnage.
He ran to the kitchen and threw up in the sink. The police, he thought. He pulled his phone out and dialled. Then stopped. Ring my brother, he thought. He’ll know what to do.
George Cashman arrived an hour later and found Harry sitting on the floor.
“Did you ring the Mitney?”
“No, I rang you.”
George walked over to the body, avoiding the blood splatters. He counted ten stab wounds in her chest and face. A frenzied attack, he judged.
“Where were you?”
“Conference. Bournemouth.”
“Witnesses?”
“About thirty.”
George looked around. Something glinted in the corner, just under the edge of an armchair. He reached out with a gloved hand and picked up a black suit button with a small splash of drying blood on it. He glanced at Harry, but his suit was immaculate, and he shook off his suspicion. Harry’s meds had worked for decades, he chided himself.
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to get him, George.”
“Are you sure? If you’re looking for revenge, you’d better dig two graves. The second one for your soul.”
“I just want to make this right.”
“It’ll never be right, Harry. I need to know, are you willing to drink the forbidden water? Because once we’re in, we’re right in.”
“Let’s do it.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In the carpark. What do you want it for?”
“The Mitney know mine. Keys?”
Harry handed them to him.
“You stay here. I’ll get some tools from my car.”
George went down, opened the boot of his car, pulled out a heavy canvass bag, and carried it across to Harry’s. Inside was Harry’s luggage and a bin bag. Curiosity got the better of him and he opened the bag. It contained a black suit, identical to Harry’s, except it was blood-soaked and the second button was missing.
The knife was a long one. It pierced his liver and slid easily up into his right lung. George fell to the floor.
As his eyes darkened, he gasped, “Why?”
“You took a chance I wouldn’t find out about you and Sarah.” Harry’s face looked different, almost like it belonged to someone else. “I did. Because that’s what forensic accountants do when they find unusual expenses in bank accounts. We don’t take chances; we deal in facts. The facts led to you.”
