Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 5. Whole No. 777, May 2006

Test Drive by Martin Edwards

The following story by Martin Edwards was nominated for one of Britain’s most distinguished short story awards, the CWA Dagger, this past November. It has never before appeared in print in the U. S. The author has recently started a series of mystery novels set in England’s Lake District, with the second entry, The Cipher Garden, just out from Poisoned Pen Press. Five Star has also recently released his novel Suspicious Minds.

People are like cars. Since Patrick told me this, I can’t get it out of my mind. That’s one of his gifts. He comes out with something that makes no sense at first, but the moment he ex-plains, you start to see the world through new eyes. Patrick’s eyes. He said people are like cars that day in the showroom, the first time we’d met for years. A throwaway line, but when my eyebrows lifted, he jerked a thumb to-wards the forecourt. Towards the executive saloons and SUVs gleaming in the sunlight, a line of vehicles as immaculate as soldiers on parade.

“You think I’m joking? Come on, Terry, you work with cars all day, every day, you must see I’m right.” He flicked a speck from the cuff of his jacket. Armani, of course. “Take a look at that muscular roadster. A mean machine, if ever I saw one. When that beast growls, you’d better watch out.”

I laughed. Same old Patrick. People always laughed when he was around. He never needed encouragement and now he was in full flow.

“And the model with lissom lines over there? Chic and elegant, but beware. You can’t put your trust in her.”

“Like Olivia Lumb,” I said, joining in. Out of the blue, our old friendship was being rekindled. “Remember warning me off that night at the Bali, telling me I’d do better with Sarah-Jane? I wonder whatever happened to Olivia.”

Something changed in Patrick’s expression, as if suddenly his skin had been stretched too tight over his cheekbones. But he kept smiling. Even as a teenager, I’d envied the whiteness of his teeth, but now they shone with all the brilliance that cosmetic dentistry can bestow. When he spoke, his voice hadn’t lost a degree of warmth.

“Matter of fact, Terry, I married her.”

“Oh, right.”

My face burned for a few moments, but what had I said? Olivia was beautiful, he’d fallen on his feet. As usual. Years ago, his nickname was Lucky Patrick, everyone called him that, even those who hated him. And a few kids did hate him, the sour and bitter ones who were jealous that he only had to snap his fingers and any girl would come running. Olivia Lumb, eh? After Patrick himself told me that she was bad news, the night of the leavers’ disco?

Frankly, I’d always thought she was out of my league, but that night a couple of drinks emboldened me. When I confided in Patrick that I meant to ask her for a dance, he warned me she was heartless and selfish. Not that she cared so well even for herself. She went on eating binges and then made herself sick. She’d scratched at her wrists with her brother’s penknife, she’d swallowed her mum’s sleeping pills and been rushed into hospital to have her stomach pumped. She dosed up with Prozac because she couldn’t cope; she was the ultimate mixed-up kid.

Afterwards, I spent the evening in a corner, talking nonstop and cracking jokes to cheer up Sarah-Jane, whose crush on Patrick he’d encouraged, then failed to reciprocate. Six weeks later I proposed and she said yes. I owed so much to Patrick; his words of warning and his playing hard-to-get with Sarah-Jane had changed my life.

I mustered a man-to-man grin. “Lucky Patrick, eh?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “Lucky me.”

“She was the most gorgeous girl in the class,” I said quickly. “Obviously I never had a chance. You did me a favour, it avoided any embarrassment. So you finished up together? Well, congratulations.”

“Know something, Terry? You really haven’t changed.”

“You don’t think so?” I took it as a compliment, but with Patrick you could never be quite sure. Even at seventeen, at eighteen, his wit used to sting.

“’Course not,” he assured me. “A snappy mover, always smart and reliable, even if your steering is a bit erratic, lets you down every now and then.”

I wasn’t offended. No point in taking umbrage with Patrick. You could never win an argument, he shifted his ground with the speed of a Ferrari. Besides, he was right. Occasionally I do try too hard, I suppose. I go over the top when I’m trying to close a difficult sale. I take corners too fast when I’m trying out a new sports car. I’m one endorsement away from losing my licence; I know I ought to take more care.

“It’s great to see you again,” I said.

I meant it, and not only because he fancied buying our top-of-the-range executive saloon. The sale would guarantee enough commission to earn the award for representative of the month and win a weekend break for two in Rome, no expense spared. Just the pick-me-up Sarah-Jane needed. More even than that, I’d missed Patrick. We’d hung around together at sixth-form college. Both of us were bored with the academic stuff, neither of us wanted to doss around at uni for another three years, simply to help the government massage the employment figures. We yearned to get out into the real world and start earning serious money. I learned a lot from Patrick, he was like a smart older brother, although there were only six months between us. He talked about going into sales and that’s where I got the idea for my own career. But I didn’t need telling that he’d climbed the greasy pole much faster. The Swiss watch and the cream, crisply tailored suit spoke louder than any words.

Fixing on his Ray-Ban Aviators, he nodded at the forecourt. “Let’s have a closer look, shall we?”

“You’ll love her.”

We strolled into the sun, side by side, just like old times. Showing Patrick the features, and as he put the car through its paces on the test drive, I felt confidence surging through me, revving up my engine. This was what I did, it wasn’t just selling cars, it was selling dreams. I knew the brochure by heart, the phrases came spinning out as if I’d just thought of them.

...The style is very emotive... good looks based on clear reasoning... touch the sports-mode console button for a yet more spirited ride... sensuous curves of the door panels and dashboard... suspension, chassis, and engine all operate in perfect harmony... the precise synergy... the fifteen-speaker premium system wraps your senses in rich, true-to-life, beautiful surround sound with concert-hall acoustics... intelligent thermal control seat heating... ultra-sonic sensors for the science of perfect parking... real-time enabled DVD-based satellite navigation... twin tailpipe baffles lend a sporting accent... potent, passionate, state-of-the-art... blending priceless power with complete control... not so much the finest car in its class as a definitive lifestyle statement.

They are the poets of the twenty-first century, in my opinion, these men (or maybe women?) who script the luxury-car brochures. When I borrow their words, for a few minutes I feel like an actor, declaiming Shakespeare on the stage. And guess what Shakespeare would be writing if he were alive today? Not stodgy plays about tempests or Julius Caesar, that’s for sure.

“So what do you think?” I asked as we pulled back onto the forecourt. “Isn’t it simply the smoothest ride you’ve ever known?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Patrick’s long fingers grazed the leather upholstery. For some strange reason, a picture jostled into my head, an image of him stroking Olivia’s pale face while he murmured to her. “Lovely mover. So what sort of deal are we talking for cash up-front?”

I clasped his arm. “For you, I’m sure we can sort out something very special.”

He smiled at me in a hungry way. Like a fat man contemplating an unwrapped chocolate bar.

“You’ve made a good salesman, Terry, one of the best. I can picture you with other customers, teasing them like an angler with a fish on the line.”

His words cheered me as we discussed figures. I knew Patrick was a skilled negotiator and I did my best to show him how much I too had learned. Working in tandem with Bernard, my sales director, like a comic and a sad-faced straight man, I utilised every — I nearly said “trick in the book” — stratagem to avoid taking too much of a bite out of our profit margin. It wasn’t exactly a success, because half an hour later we were signing up to the biggest discount I’d ever agreed to. The commission was much less than I’d anticipated, but even Bernard was no match for Patrick. I could see why my old friend was no longer in sales. He’d made enough to set up his own business. Financial services. While Bernard was making a nervous call to seek head-office authorisation, Patrick whispered that he could give me a fantastic opportunity with tax-efficient shelters for my investments. He’d be happy to design a personal balanced-risk strategy for me, as a sort of thank-you for my candour as well as the flexibility on the price of his car.

As we said goodbye, I joked that he’d cost Sarah-Jane and me a weekend in Rome. He smiled and asked after her.

“Lovely girl, you did well there. That cascading red hair, I remember it well. Lot of firepower under the bonnet, eh?”

His cheeky wink wasn’t in the least embarrassing. Far from it: His approval of my wife sent a shiver of pleasure down my spine. For years I’d shrunk from the reflection that he’d spurned her advances in the months leading up to the leavers’ disco. I hated thinking of her — or of myself, for that matter — as second best. She hadn’t hidden her bitterness; that was why we hadn’t kept in touch with Patrick. A reluctant sacrifice, but what choice did I have? Besides, she and I were enough for each other.

I contented myself with a smirk of satisfaction. “Let’s just say I don’t have any complaints.”

“I bet you don’t, you sly dog. How is she?”

“Fine, absolutely fine. Well...”

Honesty compelled me not to leave it there. I told him about the miscarriage and his face became grave. How sad, he said, and then he told me that Olivia didn’t want children yet, she wasn’t ready and that was fine by him. The fact he was taking me into his confidence at all was flattering; so was the way he talked about Sarah-Jane. It was as though her well-being meant more to him than I had ever realised.

“Remember me to her, now, don’t forget. Tell her Lucky Patrick was asking after her.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, glowing. This man was a success, he had money, status, a beautiful wife, but he hadn’t lost his generosity of spirit. How much I’d missed his friendship. “Let me give you a ring when the paperwork’s sorted.”

“Thanks.” He gripped my hand. “It’s been good, Terry. I heard you’d done well, but I didn’t know quite how well. We ought to keep in touch.”

“Too right.” I must have sounded as eager as a teenager, but it didn’t matter. He and I went back a long way. “Maybe we could get together again sometime.”

“The four of us? Fantastic idea, it’ll be just like old times.”

It wasn’t precisely what I had in mind. Olivia and Sarah-Jane as well? Not like old times at all, strictly speaking. But it was just a figure of speech, I knew what he meant. Time’s a great healer.

“I don’t think so,” Sarah-Jane said. “I really don’t think so.”

She was perched on a kitchen stool, wearing a grubby housecoat. I’d always liked the way she took care of herself; it’s important to have pride in your appearance. But since the miscarriage, she’d become moody and irritable and didn’t seem to care about anything. The dishwasher had broken down and she hadn’t bothered to call out the repairman, let alone tackle the mountain of unwashed crockery in the sink.

“You mooned after him at one time,” I reminded her.

“That was then,” she said. “Anyway, I finished up with you, didn’t I?”

“Don’t make it sound like a prison sentence,” I joked, wanting to lift her spirits. “Listen, it’s just one evening, all right? We’re not talking a dinner party, you don’t have to entertain them. We’ll meet in a bar, so we’re not under any obligation to ask them back here sometime. You don’t have to see him again.”

“But you’ll keep seeing him.”

“What’s wrong with that? He’s smart, he’s intelligent. Most of all, he’s a friend.”

She cast her eyes to the heavens. “There’s just no arguing with you, is there? Okay, okay, you win.” A long sigh. “Salesmen Reunited, huh?”

I reached for her, tried to undo the top button of the housecoat, but she flapped me away, as if swatting a fly.

“I told you last night, I need some personal space.”

Of course I didn’t push my luck. During the past couple of months she’d cried so easily. Once, in a temper, she’d slapped my face over something and nothing. I needed to give her time, just like it said in the problem pages of the magazines she devoured. She read a lot about life-coaching and unlocking her personal potential. The column-writers promised to give her the key to happiness, but she was still looking for the right door to open. Fair enough, I could do “patient and caring.” Besides, she’d agreed to see Patrick again. I could show my old friend exactly what he’d missed.

Sarah-Jane may have had mixed feelings about meeting up with Patrick and Olivia, but when it came to the crunch, she didn’t let me down. For the first time in an age, we were hitting the town and she summoned up the enthusiasm to put on her makeup and wear the slinky new dress I’d bought by way of encouragement. We couldn’t mourn forever, that was my philosophy. We had to move on.

The evening went even better than I’d dared to hope. Patrick was on his very best form and funny anecdotes streamed from him like spray from a fountain. In front of the girls, he congratulated me on my shrewd negotiating techniques. “I thought I had the gift of the blarney,” he said, “but Terry knows his cars inside out, you know he can torque for England.”

I hadn’t seen Sarah-Jane laugh like that in a long time. As for Olivia, she’d always been silent and mysterious and nothing had changed. She spoke in enigmatic monosyllables and paid no more attention to me than when we were both eighteen. I stole a glance at her wrist and saw that it was scarred. The marks were red and recent, not the legacy of a long-ago experiment in self-harm. Hurriedly, I averted my gaze. Her own eyes locked on Patrick all night, though it didn’t seem to make him feel uncomfortable. It was as if he expected nothing less.

Sarah-Jane did her best to make conversation. “I’m longing for the day when the doctor signs me off and I can get back to work.”

“Terry tells me you work for an estate agency,” Patrick said. “I keep trying to persuade Olivia to do a bit of secretarial work to help me out in the business since my last PA left. But it doesn’t suit.”

Olivia finished her piña colada and gave a faraway smile. “I look after the house.”

“I expect it’s a mansion,” I said cheerily.

“Seven bedrooms, five reception, a cellar, and a granny annex,” Patrick said. “Not that we’ve got a granny, obviously.” He mentioned the address; I knew the house, although I’d never seen it. A long curving drive wandered away between massive rhododendron bushes on its journey to the front door.

Olivia’s flowing dark hair was even silkier than I remembered, though there still wasn’t a spot of colour in her delicate cheeks. I couldn’t help recalling how I’d worshiped her from the back of the class when I should have been listening to the teacher’s words of wisdom on some writer whose name I forget. He used to say that all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others. It’s the only snippet from those lessons that has stuck in my mind. Of course, it’s true we don’t live in a fair and just world, no sense in moping about it, you just have to do the best that you can for yourself. Beauty is like money, it isn’t divided out to us all in neat proportions. How many women can match the elegance of Olivia Lumb? But I told myself I was more fortunate than Patrick. Looks matter, but a man wants more from his wife.

As Patrick might have said, Olivia was as svelte as the sportiest coupe in the dealership, but never mind. In the early years of our marriage, Sarah-Jane’s handling had been tenacious, her performance superb. Of course, nothing lasts forever. It’s as true of people as it is of cars. I’d hung my hopes on our starting a family, and losing the baby had devastated both of us. And then, in the course of a single evening at the bar, I saw Sarah-Jane coming back to life, like Sleeping Beauty awoken from a deep slumber. I had Patrick to thank for giving my wife back to me.

For both of us, making friends with Patrick again turned out to be a sort of elixir. He gave me plenty of inside advice on the markets. Tips that made so much sense I didn’t hesitate in shifting the money my parents had left me from the building-society account into the shelters he recommended. As he pointed out, even keeping cash under the floorboards was far from risk-free. After all, if you were missing out on high dividends and extra performance, you were taking an investment decision, and not a smart one.

As for Sarah-Jane, her eyes regained their sparkle, her cheeks their fresh glow. When I teased her that she hadn’t even wanted to set eyes on Patrick after all these years, she had to accept I’d been proved right. She was even happy for us to host a barbeque on our new patio, so that we could reciprocate after a dinner party at Patrick’s lovely home. Olivia didn’t cook the meal; her household management seemed to consist of hiring posh outside caterers. It didn’t matter. I sat next to another of Patrick’s clients and spent an enjoyable evening extolling the virtues of the 475 while Patrick entertained Sarah-Jane with tales of double-dealing in the murky world of financial services. People talk about dishonest car salesmen, and fair enough, but the money men are a hundred times worse if Patrick’s gleeful anecdotes about his business competitors were to be believed.

We asked Bernard and his wife along to the barbeque and it wasn’t until we’d guzzled the last hot dog that I found myself together with Olivia. As usual, she’d said little or nothing. I’d drunk a lot of strong red wine, Tesco’s finest, and probably I talked too long about how difficult it had been to lay the patio flags in just the right way. She kept looking over my shoulder towards Patrick, who was sharing a joke with Sarah-Jane and our guests. Her lack of attention was worse than irritating, it was downright rude. I found myself wanting to get under her skin, to provoke her into some sort of response. Any response.

“I ought to make a confession,” I said, wiping a smear of tomato ketchup off my cheek with a paper napkin. “Ease my conscience, you know? This has been preying on my mind for years.”

“Oh yes?” She raised a languid eyebrow.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “It’s about you and me.”

She contrived the faintest of frowns, but a frond of Virginia creeper, trailing from the pergola, seemed to cause her more concern. She flicked it out of her face and murmured, “You and me?”

I covered my mouth to conceal a hiccup, but I’m not sure she even noticed. “Well, I don’t know whether you ever realised, when we were in the sixth form together, I mean, but I had a thing about you. Quite a serious thing.”

“Oh,” she said. That was all.

I’d hoped to intrigue her. Over-optimistic, obviously. Never mind, I’d started, so I would finish. “You’re a very attractive woman, Olivia. Patrick’s a lucky fellow.”

“You think so?”

I leaned towards her, stumbling for a moment, but quickly regaining my balance. “Yes, I do think so. He thinks people are like cars. In my book, you’re a high-performance model.”

She peered into my eyes, as if seeing them for the first time. “Your wife’s prettier than I remembered. I might have known.”

That was all she said. I might have known? I stared back at her, puzzled, but before I could ask her what she meant, a strong arm wrapped itself around my shoulder and Patrick’s voice was in my ear.

“Now then, Terry. You’ll be making me jealous, monopolising my lovely wife all the time.”

I could smell the alcohol on his breath, as well as a pungent aftershave. And I could hear Sarah-Jane’s tinkling laughter as he spoke again.

“Always did have an eye for a pretty lady, didn’t you?”

The next time we got together, for a meal at an Indian restaurant a stone’s throw from the showroom, Patrick offered Sarah-Jane a job as his PA. I’m not sure how it came about. One moment they were talking idly about her plans to return to work the following week, the next Patrick was waxing lyrical about how someone with her administrative skills could play a vital role in his business. He needed a right-hand woman to rely on, he said, and who better than an old friend?

I glanced at Olivia. She was sitting very still, saying nothing, just twisting her napkin into tight little knots, as if it was a make-believe garrote. Her gaze was fixed on her husband, as usual, as if the rest of us did not exist.

I assumed that Sarah-Jane would turn him down flat. In the estate agency, she was deputy to the branch manager and stood in for him when he was on holiday. There was a decent pension scheme, too. But to my amazement, she positively basked in his admiration and said she’d love to accept. It would be a challenge, she said merrily, to keep Patrick on the straight and narrow. Before I could say a word, Patrick was summoning the waiter and demanding champagne. One look at my wife’s face convinced me it was a done deal. Even though nothing had been said about salary, let alone sick pay or holiday entitlements.

At least I need not have worried on those counts. Within a couple of days, Patrick hand-delivered her letter of appointment. The terms were generous; in fact, her basic rate was a tad higher than mine. When I pointed this out, Patrick was firm.

“I’m sure she’s worth it, Terry. And to be honest, I’m a demanding boss. I work long hours and spend a lot of time travelling. I’ll need Sarah-Jane by my side. She’ll be my right hand, so I’m prepared to pay a premium.”

I shot my wife a glance. “I don’t think...”

“It’ll be fine,” she said, patting me on the hand. “A new environment, a fresh start. I can’t wait.”

“But don’t you think... I mean, after having so long at home...?”

“I’m ready,” she said. “I’ve gathered my strength. You’re sweet to me, darling, but I don’t expect to be wrapped in cotton wool for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t worry,” Patrick said to me. “I’ll take good care of her.”

I can’t put my finger on one single incident that caused me to believe that Patrick and Sarah-Jane were having an affair. My brain didn’t suddenly crash into gear. The suspicion grew over time. Like when you begin to hear a faint knocking each time your well-loved car rounds a corner at speed. At first you don’t take any notice; after a while you can’t ignore the noise altogether, but you persuade yourself that it’s nothing, really, that if you don’t panic, sooner or later it will go away of its own accord. But it never goes away, of course, not ever.

Little things, insignificant in themselves, began to add up. She started to wear raunchy underwear again, just as she had done in those exciting days when we first got together. To begin with, I was thrilled. It was a sign she was putting the miscarriage behind her. But when I turned to her in bed at night, she continued to push me away. She was tired, she explained, the new job was taking so much out of her. It seemed fair enough, but when I suggested that it was unreasonable for Patrick to propose that she accompany him for a week-long trip to Edinburgh, to meet people from a life-insurance company he did business with, she brushed my protests aside. The long hours came with the territory, she said. Patrick had given her a wonderful opportunity. She could not, would not let him down.

Even when she was at home, she was never off the mobile, talking to him in muffled tones while I busied myself in another room. Client business was highly confidential, she reminded me when I ventured a mild complaint. I suggested several times that the four of us might go out for another meal together, but it was never convenient. Olivia wasn’t well, apparently. Although Sarah-Jane was discreet, I gathered that her old rival was seeing a psychiatrist regularly. I said that maybe Patrick would want to spend more time with his own wife, but Sarah-Jane said I didn’t understand. There was a reason why my old friend buried himself in his work. He didn’t need the money, it was all about having a safety valve. A means of escape from the pressures of being married to a neurotic cow.

One night Sarah-Jane announced that she would have to be up at the crack of dawn the next morning to catch the early flight to Paris. Patrick thought the European market was full of opportunities and they were going to spend forty-eight hours there. Putting out feelers, making contacts.

“Are you taking the camera?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Won’t have time for that. You don’t realise, Terry, just what it’s like. This is high-powered stuff, but it’s hard work. Long meetings in offices, talking business over lunch and dinner. One hotel is much like another, it’s scarcely a tourist trip.”

“Your mobile always seems to be busy or switched off when I call.”

“Exactly. It’s nonstop, I can tell you. I really don’t want to be disturbed. And don’t fret about the phone bill, by the way. Patrick pays for everything, of course he does.”

An hour later, her mobile rang again. At one time I’d liked the “I Will Survive” ringtone; all of a sudden I hated it. While she retreated to the kitchen to take the call, closing the door behind her, I did something rather dishonourable. I crept up the stairs in my stockinged feet and opened up the suitcase she’d been packing. There were new shoes I didn’t recognise, clothes with designer labels that I’d never seen before. Along with furry handcuffs, a velvet blindfold, and a whip.

When at last she came off the phone, I didn’t say a word about what I’d discovered. Only for a few seconds had I contemplated a confrontation. But I couldn’t face it. Suppose I challenged her and she admitted everything? Said that she loved Patrick and that, compared to him, I was nothing?

How could I deny it? Lucky Patrick, he won every time.

All through their absence in Paris, I felt numb. At the showroom, I was going through the motions, scarcely caring when a customer reckoned he could beat my price by going to the dealership on the other side of town. One lunchtime, when Bernard passed me the latest copy of What Car? I left it unopened on the table while I nibbled at a chicken tikka sandwich and stared moodily through the glass at the drizzle spattering the windscreens of the saloons on the forecourt. Bernard asked if I was all right and my reply was a noncommittal grunt.

Of course I wasn’t all right, my wife and best friend were betraying me. Worse, they were treating me like a fool. At once I saw that really, it had always been like this. Patrick used people and discarded them like he used and discarded his cars.

And I meant to do something about it.

I still hadn’t decided what to do when Patrick dropped Sarah-Jane off at home that evening. I’d seen his car pulling up outside the gate and I’d wandered down the path to greet them. Good old Terry, I thought to myself as I forced a good-natured wave. Always reliable.

“Good trip?”

“Fine,” Sarah-Jane said. I don’t think I’d ever seen her red hair so lustrous, her skin so delicate. “Hard work, obviously.”

“No peace for the wicked,” Patrick confirmed with his customary grin. “I don’t know what I’d do without my trusty PA...”

“Taking things down for you?” I interrupted, with as much jocularity as I could muster.

“Absolutely.”

He roared with laughter, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sarah-Jane start. When she thought I wasn’t looking, she shot Patrick a cautionary glance, but he wasn’t fazed. The worm — I knew he thought this — was incapable of turning.

In bed that night, for the first time in an age, she reached for me. I sighed and said I was tired and turned away. Even though I still wanted her so much, I would not touch her again until I knew she was mine forever.

The truth dawned on me a couple of days later. I couldn’t sort this on my own. I needed help, and only one person could provide it. But I’d need all my sales skills. Before I lost my nerve, I picked up the phone and rang the number of Patrick’s house. I held for a full minute before someone answered.

“Hello?”

“Olivia? It’s me. Terry. We need to talk.”

“What about?” Her voice was faint. I could tell she was at a low ebb.

“I think you know.”

There was a long pause before she said, “So you finally worked it out.”

“I suppose you think I’m an idiot, a poor naive idiot?”

I could picture her shrugging. “Well...”

“Like I said, we ought to talk.”

“What for? You seriously imagine I’m going to cry on your shoulder? Or let you cry on mine?”

“I want you to come here, to the showroom.” I wasn’t going to be swayed by her scorn. Suddenly, I had never felt so masterful. “We have to do something.”

Another pause. “Do something?”

“I’ll see you at reception at three o’clock. Pretend you’re a customer. I’ll take you on a test drive and we can decide.”

Looking out through the glass windows as Olivia arrived in her Fiat runabout, Bernard recognised her and shot me a sharp glance. I smiled and said, “I finally persuaded Patrick to cough up for his wife’s new car. She was ready for a change.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh yes? Well, take care, young man. She’s a loose cannon, that one.”

“The two of us go back years,” I said. “I can handle her. No worries.”

Five minutes later, Olivia was at the wheel of a new fiery orange supermini. Lovely little motor, alloy wheels, sill extensions, and a tiny spoiler above the tailgate, plus bags of equipment for the money. From the styling, you would never guess it was designed in Korea. But this afternoon, I wasn’t interested in selling a car.

“Sarah-Jane isn’t the first, is she?” I asked as we paused at a red light.

“So you finally realised?”

“This is different from the others, isn’t it?”

“What makes you think that?” Her voice was empty of emotion. I didn’t have a clue what was going on in her head.

“Because I know Sarah-Jane. She lost him once, she won’t let him slip away again. It’s only now that I see the truth. She’s been grieving for him for years. He was what she wanted, not me.”

She kept her eyes on the road. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this is different.”

“You’ve picked up hints?”

“The others never lasted this long. I always knew he would come back to me in the end. This time...”

We moved onto the dual carriageway, picking up speed as we moved out of town.

“What can we do about it?” I asked. “How can we stop them?”

“Is that what you want, to stop them?”

“Of course. Does that surprise you?”

“He could always twist you around his little finger, Terry. I thought — you were willing to put up with it. As long as you thought he was making money on your investments, as long as he kept flattering you, made you feel like a big man.”

It wasn’t the longest speech, but then, I don’t think I’d ever heard her put more than three sentences together at one time before.

“I don’t care about the money,” I said hotly.

“That’s just as well, because there won’t be as much for you as you’d like to think. The business is going down the tube.”

“What?”

Her knuckles were white against the steering wheel. “He’s always been lazy and now he doesn’t have time for anyone or anything but your wife. The creditors are pressing, Terry. Better watch out, or they’ll take your money as well as his.”

I didn’t speak again for a couple of minutes, I just gazed out of the window, watching the pylons in the fields, their arms outstretched as if denying guilt. Until then, I suppose I’d had pangs of conscience. I’m not a naturally violent man. In principle, I think it’s right to turn the other cheek. But there are limits, and I had raced past mine.

“You can stop him,” I said eventually. “That’s why I needed to talk to you, Olivia. Not to weep and wail. I just want an end to it.”

Ideas were shifting inside my head, even as I sat beside her. I hadn’t been thinking straight. I’d thought: What if she kills herself? It wasn’t nice, but looking at it another way, you might say it was only a question of time before Olivia stopped crying for help and finally went all the way. Imagining the headlines gave me grim satisfaction. Faithless Financier Finds Wife Dead. Betrayed Woman Could Not Take Any More. It would finish everything between Sarah-Jane and Patrick. Their relationship would be tainted for all time. I knew enough of him to be sure he would want to get out of it, make a new beginning with someone else. Someone else’s wife, most likely.

But maybe there was a different solution, leaving less to chance. Bernard’s words lodged in my brain. He was no fool, he had Olivia’s number. She was a loose cannon, they didn’t come any looser. What if she was fired at Patrick himself?

Signs were scattered along the grass verge warning of police speed enforcement, pictures of so-called safety cameras and a board bragging about how many poor old motorists had been caught exceeding the limit in the past six months. None of it seemed to register with Olivia. The yellow camera wasn’t hidden from view, there was no panda car lurking in the bushes, she had every chance to slow down before we reached the white lines on the road, but far from easing off the accelerator, she put her foot down. We leapt past the camera and it flashed twice in anger. I couldn’t help wincing, but at the same time I felt blood rushing to my head. This was a sort of liberation. I was manoeuvring Olivia as if she was a car to be squeezed into a tight parking space. And Patrick’s luck was about to run dry.

“He deserves to suffer,” she said.

“Yes.”

She tossed me a glance. It was gone in a moment, but for the first time since I’d known her, I thought she was actually seeing me. But I still couldn’t guess what she thought about what she saw.

“Olivia loves the special edition,” I told Bernard. “I offered her the chance to take it home, try it out for twenty-four hours before she signs on the dotted line. The insurance is fine, she’s not a time-waster, trust me.”

He gave me the sort of look you give delinquents on street corners, but said nothing. No way could he guess the thoughts jockeying inside my head. My voice was as calm as a priest’s, yielding no hint of the excitement churning in my guts.

I had made a sale, the biggest of my career.

Olivia had told Patrick she’d be out shopping all day. She was sure he’d have seized the chance, taken Sarah-Jane home so that the two of them could romp in the comfort of the king-size bed. She was going to drive straight home and catch them out.

What weapon would she choose? From our visit to their lovely house, I remembered the array of knives kept in a wooden block on the breakfast bar. And there was a cast-iron doorstop, a croquet mallet, the possibilities were endless.

Pictures floated through my mind as I shuffled through price lists for gadgets and accessories. Patrick’s damaged face peeping from out of the covering sheet in the mortuary. Solemn policemen, shaking their heads. Sarah-Jane, pale and contrite, kissing my cheek. Whispering the question: Could I ever forgive her?

Of course I could. I’m not a cruel or bitter man. I’d promise her that we would work at the marriage. Pick up the pieces.

Patrick was right about one thing, I decided. People are like cars. They just need the right driver.

My mobile rang. I keyed Answer and heard Olivia. Breathless, triumphant.

“So easy, Terry, it was so easy. They were on the drive outside the porch. Kissing, they only had eyes for each other.”

“You — did it?”

She laughed, a high, hysterical peal. “It’s like nothing else. The feeling as your wheels go over someone. Crushing out the life — squish, squish. The screams urge you on. I felt so empowered, so much in control. But I reversed over the body, just to make sure.”

“So...”

I heard her gasp and then another voice on the line. A voice I never wanted to hear again. Frantic, horrified.

“Terry, you put her up to this, you bastard. You jealous, murdering bastard.”

It was Patrick, Lucky Patrick.

My mind stalled, useless as an old banger. I couldn’t take this in, couldn’t comprehend what Olivia had done. If Patrick was alive — what had happened to Sarah-Jane?

Copyright © 2006 Martin Edwards