Unfaithfully Yours (8 page)

I leafed through the pile of books and found they were all of naked men. They were not all playing football. Some were lounging around in the open air in what looked like a meadow. One was standing on a diving board displaying himself. In one volume, entitled
Ganymede
and published, I think, in Germany, the men, all naked, seemed to be working on agricultural machinery and in one, in which they seemed to be taking off and putting on what looked like leather shorts, they were shown spanking each other with hairbrushes.

There were also a number of quite large black-and-white photographic prints, which, at first, I thought had been taken by Sam. Photography is something of a hobby of his. He has also always been keen on sailing and, though I tried hard to stop him buying a boat, he has, finally, got a part share in one with a man called Root, who was, he tells me, in the Royal Navy a long time ago. I hate it. Really, they are very expensive and all you do is cruise around places like Portsmouth, which I don’t like.

This was more like a nineteenth-century sailing ship. It was a picture of a man climbing a mast and he seemed, as far as I could tell, to be quite a long way from the deck. He was wearing something that looked a little like a Santa Claus hat and, on close inspection, proved to be precisely that. Although the picture was in black-and-white they had coloured the hat bright red. The man was about thirty, I suppose, and he was absolutely naked. What was most noticeable about him, however, was that he was sporting something I have not seen on Sam for nearly thirty years – an enormous erection.

I know we are writing to each other, now, as friends and I am not talking to you in your professional capacity but the question that comes to my mind is: ‘Is my husband a homosexual and, if he is, what should I do about it, Doctor?’

Your friend

Mary Dimmock

From:

Roland O. Gibbons

Gibbons Detective Agency

12 The Alley

Putney, SW15

4 September

To:

Elizabeth Price

PO Box 132

Putney

Dear Mrs Price,

It is now about several weeks since I started surveillance on your husband and, as you said you were planning to be away for a few weeks, I have not ‘bothered you with detail’ in respect of his extra-marital sexual activities. I am not sure whether you are ‘still with us’, by which I do not mean that I am wondering whether you are dead but whether you are still in Putney. Mind you, the two things are not dissimilar!

Your husband, Mrs Price, has done things with the woman known to you as Mary Dimmock that have even shocked me. I have twenty years’ experience as a private investigator but I have never seen adultery as flagrant as this.

I am sending you only a few selected images. The others are, frankly, far too shocking to be entrusted to the ‘post’. Even the ones I am sending – particularly the wide-angle shot of them underneath the table in the garden of the ‘Coach and Horses’ (it was taken after hours) – may well disgust and anger you.

I have been watching Mr Price very closely. It is not a pleasant task.

I often find that really intense surveillance can often be achieved by making a relationship with the subject. To that end I not only have continued my involvement with the Putney Thespians but have also made several trips to Mrs Dimmock’s husband’s dental surgery – which is a hotbed of vice and sexual intrigue of the kind that I understand were common in and around the Emperor Caligula’s summer retreats. When in rehearsal your husband and Mrs Dimmock are fairly discreet. They do address each other as ‘darling’ but then so do most of the other Putney Thespians, who are clearly under the illusion that this is how professional actors carry on at work.

When he is having his teeth fixed, however, their behaviour is little short of certifiable. It may be that their ‘
liaison dangereuse
’ is one of those that thrive on danger. I have often encountered this kind of thing. A couple I watched for most of the autumn of 2005 seemed to get most pleasure out of having sex on public transport (particularly tube trains) and it is clear that the close proximity of Mr Dimmock ‘adds spice’ to the proceedings.

I realized this when, overhearing them at the end of a rehearsal of Mrs Dimmock’s mad scene in which, for some reason, the director had decided that Mr Price should enter, halfway through, wearing swimming trunks and carrying a dustpan and brush. The idea – as far as I can make out – is that everyone in Denmark, or the royal palace anyway, is either mad or pretending to be mad, which is why Polonius spends most of his performance wearing a nappy. Anyway, as the ‘lovebirds’ were discussing their performances, I heard Mrs Dimmock say to your husband, ‘You should come and get Sam to look at your gums!’

‘Oh, really?’ said Mr Price. ‘My gums!’

‘Yes!’ she replied. ‘And I can . . . give your molars a good going over!’

She said this in an openly suggestive manner and Mr Price laughed, long and loud, as he does whenever she says anything that could be construed as having a sexual implication. I have noticed, by the way, that their ‘love chat’ – much of which I have on tape – often uses dental metaphors. This exchange occurred at 15.49 on 20 July, and a full transcript is available, should you wish to see it.

‘Come on Thursday at two thirty!’ she said. ‘I will book you in!’

The Dimmocks’ house is a large and gloomy affair in one of the quiet streets that lie between Putney Heath and the Upper Richmond Road. I arrived deliberately early for a 15.00 appointment. There were no shops nearby and no people visible on the wide pavements. The only thing that distinguished their house from those near it was a mast in the front garden, which, to my surprise, was decorated with a flag that (although furled on the windless afternoon that I visited) was almost certainly a skull and crossbones.

The front door was open. There were several rhododendron bushes in the front garden, and the hallway and the front reception – which doubled as a waiting area – were both dark and cool after the brilliant sunshine outside.

I did not announce myself but slipped into the waiting room without anyone realizing I was present. I am, as I think you observed in one of your letters, Mrs Price, a man who ‘blends in’ to almost any background. Your husband was ‘in the chair’ when I arrived and, from my seat by the window, I could not only see his feet and legs but hear his ‘small-talk’ with the invisible Mr Dimmock. To my surprise, they seemed to know each other quite well. Mr Dimmock – who has a pronounced West Country accent – talked a great deal of his boat, which is apparently called the
Jolly Roger
and is moored at Portsmouth. He interspersed a fairly detailed account of what he called ‘caulking its bottom’ with loud and often aggressive commands to his patient. ‘We got the keel up on the ramp and we – OPEN WIDER WIDER WIDER – managed to seal the resin on the back timbers but – DO NOT MOVE YOUR TONGUE, GERALD – I always think that commercial resins in this country are not a patch on those from the Dutch marine suppliers, like Burgwaal de Kock. I AM GOING TO SQUIRT WATER ON YOUR GUMS NOW.’

Then he fired off several direct questions to his patient, even though Mr Price was obviously unable to speak. This did not stop him trying, of course, although he sounded as if his mouth was propped open with the dental equivalent of an RSJ.

At 14.25 precisely Mr Dimmock broke off and said to his wife, ‘Is it time for Yo-ho-ho?’

I thought at first he was referring to refreshment but Mrs Dimmock answered, ‘It is, darling! They are showing extracts from the Guernsey Regatta with some of those sloops you liked!’ It was, clearly, a TV channel devoted exclusively to sailing.

Mr Dimmock said he would not be gone long, and as he rushed off to get a look at those sloops, I had my first glimpse of Mary Dimmock’s much-cuckolded husband. He was much bigger than I had expected and his beard was enormous – far bigger than almost any I have ever seen. It was reddish in colour. He was also, again to my surprise, irretrievably bald.

Immediately he had gone, Mrs Dimmock and your husband began to make love. At first I thought he was giving her oral pleasure and then I realized that the noise he was making was muffled by whatever Mr Dimmock had put into his mouth. Cotton wool? A steel clamp? Both, possibly. Whatever it was, their needs were obviously so urgent that neither thought to remove the device. Perhaps it enhanced his pleasure.

It was certainly the most interesting ten minutes I have ever spent in a dentist’s waiting room. It was hard to work out what they were doing and I am afraid I did not manage to get any photographs but I do have a fairly good-quality sound recording, which is among the attached documents. I have also transcribed Mrs Dimmock’s comments, most of which are, as you will see, commands along the lines of ‘Harder! Faster! Deeper!’ and ‘Fuck me, Gerald!’ – which she says several times. From the movements of Mr Price’s feet, I think full intercourse was almost definitely achieved.

When they had finished – and I timed the act at four and a half minutes (which is, as I know from past observations, roughly what it usually takes) – Mrs Dimmock started to move about the surgery once again. I caught fleeting glimpses of her as she crossed and re-crossed my line of vision. She was – on first viewing anyway – naked from the waist up.

‘God,’ I heard her say, ‘I love it when you put your hands round my throat!’

It was still hard to make out Mr Price’s response (I have not bothered to try to transcribe his replies) but he said something that sounded like ‘Gy guh gucking goo!’

To which Mrs Dimmock replied, ‘Did Pamela Larner like that?’ He did not answer this comment but she went on to say – and I have this comment on tape too so I did not mishear the remark, ‘Did you strangle her?’ He did not answer this. She went on, ‘I bet you wanted to kill her, didn’t you? I must say I wanted to kill her. Odious woman. With her pointy breasts and her three children who could all read at three months and were all going to Oxford. I would have wanted to kill her. You can tell me. I shan’t mind. Good riddance, I say.’

There was a pause and then she added, ‘She said I had a big bottom.’

His only answer – which was cut off by the return of Mr Dimmock – was, ‘Gat’s ger woh hun I e’er hagg i’ a genckiss care!’ A remark I still do not completely understand.

When I was sure the ‘coast was clear’, I went out again and re-entered the premises, after first pressing the bell.

I think we now have definitive proof of his adultery and, should you wish to use this material in a legal context, divorce or custody settlement or simply to confront him with it before trying to ‘make a go’ of your marriage, I am at your disposal. I will say, however, that ‘making a go’ of any relationship with the fiend to whom you are so unfortunately yoked will be a difficult task.

If you wish me to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death of this mysterious woman ‘Pamela Larner’, if it should turn out to be murder and if your husband had anything to do with it, he should obviously be punished. I think Mr Price is owed at least fifteen to twenty years in a maximum-security prison. Though he might do rather well in that kind of place!

I do, however, appreciate that you may not wish to learn anything more unpleasant about Mr Price and, if you feel I have ‘done my job’ I enclose my bill for your kind attention. As you will notice, your cash advance did not quite cover all the time I have spent on this case. I hope you will feel I have been ‘fair’. I have not charged you for my dental expenses for the exploration of a (fictional) gum disorder or for my time in rehearsals of
Hamlet
– although were I to allow myself the luxury of billing for this difficult task, it is not easy to think of an amount of money that would fully compensate! It bids fair to be one of the worst productions of the play ever seen anywhere in the world!

Best wishes

Roland O. Gibbons

PS I have now been asked to play the part of Horatio in
Hamlet
. I get the impression that if a Labrador wandered in off the street they would offer it a part. Mind you, I think a Labrador would make a better job of Laertes than the bloke who is now playing the part. He is called Norman Staines and he cannot seem to remember his lines. He keeps moaning about having to ‘go to the hospital’ but I cannot see anything wrong with him. He seems to be a buddy of Mr Price’s – since your husband is unusually pleasant and almost protective towards him. I have accepted the part but do not feel I am right for it. I personally fancied the Norwegian ambassador role, which is less demanding but has been cut – along with many other things, including the ‘To be or not to be’ speech!

From:

Elizabeth Price

PO Box 132

Putney

6 September

To:

Roland O. Gibbons

Gibbons Detective Agency

12 The Alley

Putney, SW15

Dear Mr Gibbons,

My word, you have been busy!

I have only just returned to Putney, and thank you for your last letter. I say ‘letter’ – it was quite a parcel! I have now viewed your footage, some of which has been filmed really superbly and, for me, recalled some of the most pungent moments in documentary
noir
. The sequence in which
la
Dimmock masturbates my husband in the children’s play area next to the Barnes tennis courts was powerful, vivid and full of an unexplained menace that was all the more potent for never being sufficiently explained. Who was the man in the white coat in the distance? Was that a dwarf on a bicycle disappearing, at speed, in the direction of the Lower Richmond Road? Why did Gerald shout, ‘Banzai!’ at the critical moment? Was she rubbing his semen into her hair and, if so, why?

Do I sound as if I am above all this, Mr Gibbons? I hope so.

I am, as you have probably already gathered, no mere jealous housewife, and your researches have not been commissioned simply in order to enable me to get rid of my husband quickly and easily. I don’t think, actually, that anyone can quickly or easily get rid of someone they have once loved. Believe you me, Mr Gibbons, I once did love Gerald a lot, unbelievable as that may seem.