Bailing Out

Something seemed to snap, at that point. She stopped whimpering and began ranting about respect for the dead, about how she'd only ever loved me and if I hadn't been so timid about trying new things in the bedroom she'd never have been tempted to start up with him again after getting married. When I called 'bullshit' on that, she flew into a rage and said that she was going out to her sister's place until I'd calmed down. And that was when I'd gone into the bedroom, emerging to find her struggling to put her favourite leather jacket on, and handed her the bag I'd packed when she'd thought I was still in the bathroom.

"Here... this'll keep you going for now," I snapped, "you can come back for the rest in a couple of days!"

"What? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about it being over, Abbie! You're history! Now get the fuck out of my sight before I do something we'll both regret."

"You can't do this, Robbie," she wailed, "You can't! You can't dump me like this!"

"Too late... I already have," I told her as I steered her towards the door and opened it, "I'll be seeing a lawyer in the morning about getting a divorce... and I'd advise you to do the same."

For a few days she'd begged and pleaded for me to take her back and then, once she knew it wasn't going to happen, started to threaten that she'd clean me out. I kept my cool and simply referred her to my lawyer. He'd already told me that, since the apartment had been mine before we were together, she wouldn't have any claim on it and, as there were no children and she was employed, it was unlikely that I'd be ordered to pay her much, if anything.

Meanwhile, as the people in the factory began to hear what had happened, so I began to hear a lot about what she'd been like when she'd worked there. According to one of the supervisors and the general foreman, Abbie had been known to distribute her 'favours' quite freely. The main recipient had been the late Joe Carpenter. There had been quite a few other beneficiaries, but Joe was the only one who bragged that he wasn't required to use a condom.

There was, I was told, a pile of old rugs in the warehouse that was still referred to as 'Abbie's Bed;' almost certainly the one on which I'd had my first experience with her. There was even a suggestion (never actually proven), that while I'd danced with Samantha at the Christmas party, Abbie had been so incensed by it that she'd practically dragged Joe there for a session before she'd done the same with me. If true, it certainly explained the warmth and the 'smooth slickness!'

I also learned that, within a couple of months of being married, she'd started arriving at the factory during the lunch break from time to time and taking Joe off somewhere for a while. If he wasn't working that particular day, then someone else would usually be chosen. Most of them obviously thought I'd been a fool to actually marry her but, like 'honour among thieves,' they'd said nothing.

There wasn't much I could do about it now, of course, but it was all stored away for later.

Finally, of course, thanks to the persistence of the police, all the pieces of the puzzle slowly began to fall into place. Eventually, they came to ask if they could examine any computers we had in the house and I had no qualms about handing over the two matching laptops I'd bought for us. In fact, I was a bit surprised that they hadn't done it earlier.

The examination of them took about ten days -- and then the excrement really hit the whirly thing.

It was a Wednesday morning, one I'll probably never forget, when I got a call from DS Mark Haley who phoned me at work and asked, very politely, if I could possibly arrange to come down to the station and bring Samantha with me for eleven o'clock. I agreed, of course and went to ask Sammy if she would come with me.

To be honest, even though we worked in the same place and our paths naturally crossed, I hadn't seen a great deal of her since the incident. I knew, of course, that she'd kicked Gerald out of the house, and that his drunken attempts to get back in had very quickly led to a restraining order to keep him away. I also knew he was suspended from work but, at that time, still receiving his salary -- but I had noticed that Sammy had become withdrawn and often looked as if she was walking through a waking nightmare. Even her glorious golden tresses seemed lank and lifeless. I guessed that the sight of Joe Carpenter plunging to earth still haunted her, along with the certain knowledge that it could easily have been her. There was almost an air of resignation about her when she agreed to accompany me and the journey there was quite an uncomfortable one with very little conversation.

On our arrival, we were shown into a large, and surprisingly comfortable office where Mark, Kelsey and the same DC who'd taken the original notes were waiting for us. The only surprise was that the other person in the room was Abbie. We were immediately told that, although we were only there to help with their enquiries, we were entitled to have a lawyer present if we wished. None of us seemed inclined to take advantage of the offer. Once again, we were shown the recording equipment that was to be used.

I was up first. The two matching laptops were placed in front of me and I was asked which was mine. That was easy -- mine had been used for both work and play and bore some of the slight battlescars that were unavoidable. Most of them were minor scratches on the cover, but there was one easily spotted chip out of a corner where I'd dropped it after clumsily removing it from its case. I had no hesitation, therefore, in recognising mine and explaining why it was so easy to do.

The next question was whether I ever used Abbie's one and, once again, I had no reluctance in admitting that I sometimes did.

"I know we're always being advised not to leave valuables in our car," I told them, "but there are times when my laptop has been left in the boot. Instead of going to get it, I've used Abbie's if she wasn't on it. Normally, it's just been to see the headlines, catch up with the sports' results... y'know, that kind of thing."

"You haven't used it to send e-mails?" Inspector Kelsey asked.

"No... I've always used my own for that. We had a shared e-mail address that we always used for purchases and stuff like that -- and that's available on both computers. But I also have a personal one on my laptop. It's the one used for sending messages to club members and, from time to time, to buy surprise gifts."

The two policemen looked at one another, each gave a slight nod, and then they told me that I could go if I wanted to. I thought about it for a moment or two, but then I said:

"If you no objection, gentlemen, I'd rather stay. Mrs Lloyd-Smyth has been... well, a bit fragile since the errm, incident. I can't possibly know what you're going to ask her, but I think she may possibly need the support of a friend?"

I heard the deliberately loud snort of derision from Abbie when I used the word 'friend,' but I managed to ignore it and watched as another look passed between Mark and Kelsey. They obviously had a good working relationship because they seemed to read one another's minds and reach a quick decision. They told me I could stay, but I had to sit on another chair that was further away from the table and promise to say nothing whatsoever.

Once I'd swapped seats, I watched the remaining players in the drama as Kelsey brought out a large bundle of A4 sized papers. Sammy seemed a bit listless, and not all that interested in what was happening. Abbie was restless; I didn't know how long she'd been there before us, but I knew the signs of her need for a cigarette. It reminded me that I'd had to pay a lot of money to a cleaning agency to get rid of the foul smell of them in my apartment.

"I'd like you to take a look at these if you'd be so kind, Mrs Lloyd-Smyth," Inspector Kelsey said with a gentle voice and a benevolent smile. "And then tell me if you're familiar with them. Please... take your time... I want you to be absolutely sure, and I'd like you to read all of them if you don't mind."

Saying that, he handed over the sheaf of paper and Samantha turned over the top one. I heard the sharp intake of breath followed, almost immediately, by a wracking sob that seemed to shudder its way through her delicate frame. I went to get up, but I was waved back down. Samantha seemed to take several deep breaths in an effort to regain control of herself, and I realised she'd succeeded when she eventually turned over to the next sheet.

The silence and the tension in the room were agonising as Samantha continued to read; all it would have needed for a completely dramatic scene would have been the steady tick of a wall clock and the sight of a second hand defining the passing moments -- but the only sound was the gentle whirring of recording devices and the hesitant breathing of the six people who were present. It had seemed cool when we'd first arrived but now I could feel the dampness of sweat beneath my arms and, as the time moved slowly along, I shifted as quietly and unobtrusively as I could in an attempt to find comfort on the hard chair.

Sammy must have been two thirds of the way through the pile before she eventually looked up at the two policemen and, in a plaintive voice, said:

"I've read these before. They're the ones I told Robbie about when I found them on Gerald's computer. Is it really necessary to make me read them all?"

"It is important, Mrs Lloyd-Smith," Inspector Kelsey affirmed, "I realise it must be difficult... but it would be a big help if you could continue... please?"

As she returned to her task, I tried to catch Mark's eye, but he determinedly kept his gaze on Sammy, so I tried to gauge the reaction of Abbie to what was happening. She still seemed restless -- as if she'd be almost willing to sell her soul for a cigarette but, from where she sat, it was impossible to see what Sammy was reading and I could see an almost overwhelming curiosity torturing her.

It was the final couple of pages that changed everything. Firstly, there was a little cry of shock from Sammy; then she lifted the page towards her, as if she needed to bring it closer in order to believe what she was reading. Then there was an audible gasp from her -- almost a sob of distress -- and she slowly put the final page, face down, on the pile she'd read. Without a word, she withdrew a small packet of tissues from her bag, pressed one of them to her face, and began to sob uncontrollably.

"Look... what the fuck is going on here?" Abbie demanded in a loud voice. "What's on those papers... and why am I here?

"We'll come to you in a moment," Kelsey replied smoothly, but Abbie wasn't having that.

"No... that's not good enough!" she yelled. "I've been sat here while you've made her read whatever shit is on those papers and I've been ignored. Just because his whore..." she exclaimed with a nod of her head in my direction, "...happens to be rich, the pair of you are treating her like a fuckin' princess... while I'm left here with no idea of what's...."

"Very well, Mrs Davies," Kelsey said, not actually raising his voice but using a timbre that brooked no argument and brought immediate silence. "Mrs Lloyd-Smyth has been looking through a series of e-mails that were found on your computer. They're the ones in which Mr Smyth and you planned not only an affair... but also the cold-hearted and brutal murder of his wife!"

The impression I had was of a goldfish that's been removed from its bowl of water and placed on a carpet. Abbie's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out; her arms flapped uselessly at her sides and I could see her legs beginning to tremble. Finally, coughing and spluttering, she managed to say: "It isn't true! It's a mistake. That's ridiculous!" and then, as I moved forward to comfort the sobbing Samantha, she glared at me and said: "Tell them, Robbie! I wouldn't do something like that! You know I wouldn't. I don't even like that creepy bastard! Tell them!" And when I ignored her and placed my arm gently around Sammy's shoulder, she almost screamed:

"I'm not staying here to be accused of something like this! I want to go home... I'm going!" and she turned towards the door, only to find that the detective constable had already moved to stand in front of it. She turned back to face Mark and Kelsey and, as she did, the Inspector said:

"Very well... there may be other charges to follow but, for the moment... Abigail Ruth Davies, I am placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of Samantha Lloyd-Smith. You do not have to say anything...."

And that was when my wife fainted.

If I'd been quick enough to react, I suppose I could have caught her before she hit the ground. At the same time, I reasoned that it was a much lighter bump than the one she'd intended for Sammy -- so I just made a half-hearted attempt that was never likely to succeed.

CH05

"Though the mills of God grind slowly; yet they grind exceeding small."

I was reminded of the words from Longfellow's poem many times over the following months and more so whenever I was in the company of the detectives responsible for investigating the death of Joseph Carpenter. There seemed to be no great haste involved in bringing the matter to court but, to be fair, it was an extremely complicated matter which was likely to require a lot of expert opinion even to make the case for it being classed as murder.

During that time I did manage to persuade Samantha to take a holiday and, when she returned from it, she did appear to be a bit refreshed. At the same time, her enthusiasm for the day to day running of the business had clearly waned and she left most of it to me, to Freddie Watson, the head salesman, and to Millicent Ferguson who'd been her personal assistant and fulfilled the same task with her father for many years previously. Both of them had now been elevated to the board.

When, after a few weeks, Gerald Smyth finally broke down and confessed his role in the affair, it seemed only a matter of time before Abbie would do the same and it would all be over -- but she remained absolutely resolute in denying any part in it.

I'd thought it would be little more than a formality; that once he'd admitted everything they would be able to convict her without any difficulty, but I gradually learned that it was Mark who kept holding things up because he wasn't entirely convinced about her role in things. He admitted as much to me when we met, informally, at the club one Saturday evening when we were having a quiet drink together. It wasn't that he discussed it in any detail; he just managed to convey his doubts without going in to any detail.

Naturally, I wanted to tell him that Abbie was an accomplished liar -- and that it was something that I'd experienced at first hand. The way she'd managed to conceal her extra-curricular activities -- and the extent of them -- had been remarkable and, even with hindsight, I don't think there'd been anything in the way of obvious clues that I'd missed at the time. I was, however, wise enough to keep silent on the subject and I learned enough to know that she was still denying -- absolutely -- any knowledge of the damning e-mails or even any contact with Gerald Smyth.

The club itself was in the process of being wound up. The heart had been removed from it by Joe's tragic death, membership had declined and so had the team-building weekends with the AFFs (Accelerated Freefall courses) that provided so much of the essential revenue. Even the cost of hiring the plane had become a severe burden, especially when the normal 3 flights per hour with up to 10 jumpers had been reduced to just one per hour with an average of three jumps.

Some of us, including myself, who'd been there that day had continued to take the walk along the long and wide outside step -- but I think most were doing it to prove to themselves that they hadn't lost their nerve. Samantha, for example, did one jump and then announced that it would be her last. Mark did the same, and I'd done three since then. There was another club -- the best part of fifty miles away - that was in the process of buying the parachuting equipment, and the lease on the clubhouse and other facilities was being negotiated with a small flying club. I was sad about it, but the publicity that we'd received meant that it was probably inevitable.

It was a few days after that when the trial began. I wasn't able to see the opening part of it because I was to be called as a witness. I'd actually thought that couldn't happen because I had some vague notion of 'spousal privilege,' but it seemed that I was wrong about that and I wasn't prepared to make a big fuss about it.

Everything about the trial was intimidating, from the aged and somewhat magnificent fittings and fixtures in the courtroom, to the bewigged barristers and their cohorts who never seemed in any hurry to go about their business. The prosecuting counsel took me very slowly through all the events of the fatal day and that was the easy part. Then he turned to the subject of the relationship between me and my wife -- which was difficult.

For the first time, I was shown some of the papers that Samantha had been required to read, and it wasn't difficult to see why she'd been upset. The early ones had been nothing more than teasing, Internet chat -- the kind of thing I believe lots of people do for excitement. They were, of course, 'anonymous' to begin with -- 'Mrshotandwet' chatting to 'Gthebull.' They were conversations about the sexual adventures they wanted to have but were denied because of reluctant partners that soon became much more explicit. I was questioned as to whether or not I was aware of my wife's desire to try any of these things since she mentioned failing to convince her husband about them, and I had to admit that it followed almost exactly what she'd tried to get me to do.

Somewhere along the way, they'd revealed their true identities to one another. Gerald had admitted that, because of his feelings about me, he'd be even more willing to enjoy 'playing' with her -- but she'd backed away from that, saying that any such liaison, if discovered, would mean an instant end to her marriage and, more importantly, to the lifestyle I'd provided.

She'd insisted on keeping it to 'chat' and nothing else for a good while. At the same time, the details of their mutual desires became more and more explicit and, what could only be described as more 'hard-core.' The longing for BDSM experiences, for example, were very prominent from both of them and, in response to a picture she sent (not showing her face) of her dressed in the leather basque, high boots and strap-on dildo -- one she'd apparently taken herself -- seemed to almost have him slavering, to judge by his reply.

The whole thing was very distressing, but it got worse when they began to plan how to get rid of their respective partners so that they could be free to indulge their desires. The initial part of that was tentative, to say the least. Neither of them wanted to lose the meal-ticket they'd had and it was only after Abbie suggested that some sort of 'accident' would solve their problem that things took a far more seriously turn.

Although neither of them ever specified what form the 'accident' would take, it was pretty clear that it was a fatal one that they were talking about. Near the end of the correspondence, there was one from Abbie saying that she didn't want to be left 'high and dry' if it was successful and he suddenly found himself coming into a fortune. There were demands for an 'insurance policy,' something they would both sign up to so that they'd be bound to one another in the event that it was successful.

That assurance was apparently given and received -- although no trace of it had ever been found -- and, the day before the 'accident,' Gerald had sent a message saying that the following day would be perfect and to make sure she 'kept well clear' and was 'visibly somewhere else.'