Of all people I, one of his closest friends and his workmate for twenty years, should have been able to discover why he died. His wife was shocked and baffled, and his grown-up son and daughter, and the company, Despatch Concrete Limited, and this general bewilderment was reflected in the coroner’s remarks at the inquest: there seemed to be no earthly reason why Ted Polson, fifty-three, happily married, happily employed, in sound financial circumstances, in good health, should have killed himself. I’m going to describe the facts and the events and I’ll make a bet with you, for I’m a gambling man, that you also won’t be able to solve the mystery. The facts. First, his home life: as smooth as a dream, slippers by the fire, socks darned and shirts ironed, even the non-iron ones; two handsome children, the son in the sixth form at high school going on to university and a science degree, heading for the DSIR; a daughter engaged to the son of one of those Roslyn businessmen, pots of money, a two-storeyed double-brick place overlooking the harbour, an alpine garden with plants flown specially from the Southern Alps — not in my line, but promising a good setup for the daughter.
What do You think about Between My Father And The King?
