Lord Lucan Confesses to murder

It speaks volumes about the enfeebled state of my mind at the time that I had actually believed that one of my plans would come off.

I had been plotting the murder of my estranged wife Veronica for over a year. I thought that I had it planned to the last detail.

It had not even occurred to me to have a back-up plan, some sort of escape pod just in case things started to unravel. Though given my previous form, I think it might have been wise to have not just a Plan B, but a Plan C, D and E all the way through to Plan Z.

Because make no mistake, although for a very short time in my life I had been considered 'lucky', the truth was that since my marriage I’d been the kiss of death to any project that came within a mile of me. I had the opposite of the Midas touch; everything that came into my grasp was by some magical alchemy turned into ordure.

I knew this full well, but still I’d always been a punter and it was in my soul - and even the unluckiest punter in Christendom always believes that everything will come good on the next throw of the dice.

There was, I believe, one other reason why I had no back-up plan that night, and that was because the consequences of failure were just too awful to contemplate. For on that night, I was a punter who was betting the farm: Not just everything I owned, but my life, my family and my entire reputation.

If it came off, then all well and good, and - or so I naively believed at the time - my problems would be over. Hand in hand, my three children and I would walk together through green fields into that golden sunset.

And if it did not come off …

If something went wrong …

The consequences were too awful to contemplate.

So the result of all this was that I did not contemplate anything other than that my hellish scheme would come off in its 100 per cent entirety. It was the power of positive thinking. Since I was not even countenancing the possibility of failure, then it could not, could not possibly occur.

And then it did happen - in the sort of spectacular fashion that only a Lucan could manage.

If it weren’t for Sandra’s death, it could have come straight out of a West End farce. By that, I mean that of all the various scenarios that might have occurred that night, there had seemed to be but two options: Either Veronica was killed - or she survived. Either one or t’other, just red or black on the roulette wheel. But never once did it occur to me that there might in fact be a third scenario: That my wife would survive, and that it would be the nanny who ended up on the mortuary slab.

As I said, it takes a Lucan to turn a set-back into a disaster of nightmarish proportions.

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