Fan Mail by Peter Robinson Page B

that no murder is perfect. All I want is a chance. It’s worth the risk.”
    The waiter returned with Quilley’s drink and they both sat in silence until he had gone. Quilley was intrigued by this drab man sitting opposite him, a man who obviously didn’t even have the imagination to dream up his own murder plot. “What do you want from me?” he asked.
    â€œI have no right to ask anything of you, I understand that,” Peplow said. “I have absolutely nothing to offer in return. I’m not rich. I have no savings. I suppose all I want really is advice, encouragement.”
    â€œIf I were to help,” Quilley said, “if I were to help, then I’d do nothing more than offer advice. Is that clear?”
    Peplow nodded. “Does that mean you will?”
    â€œIf I can.”
    And so Dennis Quilley found himself helping to plot the murder of a woman he’d never met with a man he didn’t even particularly like. Later, when he analyzed his reasons for playing along, he realized that that was exactly what he had been doing—playing. It had been a game, a cerebral puzzle, just like thinking up a plot for a book, and he never, at first, gave a thought to real murder, real blood, real death.
    Peplow took a handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped the thin film of sweat from his brow. “You don’t know how happy this makes me, Mr. Quilley. At last I have a chance. My life hasn’t amounted to much and I don’t suppose it ever will. But at least I might find some peace and quiet in my final years. I’m not a well man.” He placed one hand solemnly over his chest. “Ticker. Not fair, is it? I’ve never smoked, I hardly drink, and I’m only fifty-­three. But the doctor has promised me a few years yet if I live right. All I want is to be left alone with my books and my garden.”
    â€œTell me about your wife,” Quilley prompted.
    Peplow’s expression darkened. “She’s a cruel and selfish woman,” he said. “And she’s messy, she never does anything around the place. Too busy watching those damn soap operas on television day and night. She cares about nothing but her own comfort, and she never overlooks an opportunity to nag me or taunt me. If I try to escape to my collection, she mocks me and calls me dull and boring. I’m not even safe from her in my garden. I realize I have no imagination, Mr. Quilley, and perhaps even less courage, but even a man like me deserves some peace in his life, don’t you think?”
    Quilley had to admit that the woman really did sound awful —worse than any he had known, and he had met some shrews in his time. He had never had much use for women, except for occasional sex in his younger days. Even that had become sordid, and now he stayed away from them as much as possible. He found, as he listened, that he could summon up remarkable sympathy for Peplow’s position.
    â€œWhat do you have in mind?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t really know. That’s why I wrote to you. I was hoping you might be able to help with some ideas. Your books . . . you seem to know so much.”
    â€œIn my books,” Quilley said, “the murderer always gets caught.”
    â€œWell, yes,” said Peplow, “of course. But that’s because the genre demands it, isn’t it? I mean, your Inspector Baldry is much smarter than any real policeman. I’m sure if you’d made him a criminal, he would always get away.”
    There was no arguing with that, Quilley thought. “How do you want to do it?” he asked. “A domestic accident? Electric shock, say? Gadget in the bathtub? She must have a hair curler or a dryer?”
    Peplow shook his head, eyes tightly closed. “Oh no,” he whispered, “I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything like that. No more than I could bear the sight of her blood.”
    â€œHow’s her