A Sentence of Life

by Julian Gloag

  “I didn’t realise that. I see it’s important.”

  “Very well then. You just tell us in your own words the events of the Monday morning, eh? Everything. Doesn’t matter how silly it might seem to you.”

  “Alright, I’ll try.” Labouriously he attempted to collect his memories. “I got up a bit earlier than usual …” He had begun. As he spoke, the dead triviality of it all embarrassed him, like the sight of an old man exposing his flaccid penis on the street.

  “… I arrived at Number Twenty-seven and went up the steps—I think there were steps. June answered the door and—”

  “Half a moment. How did she know you were there?”

  “Oh. I rang the bell.”

  “I see. Then she answered the door?”

  “Yes. We went up one flight of stairs—June led the way—and then we went into her room…”

  It was very simple—he’d just had a look at a couple of obscure spots in the manuscript, which June had discovered. Then he’d left. But Superintendent George would not have it so simple.

  “Did she offer you anything to eat or drink?”

  “Oh, yes—now you mention it. She gave me a cup of coffee.”

  “Did she have one herself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  “She offered me some cake, I think. I didn’t have any, but I rather fancy she had a piece.”

  “What sort of cake would that have been?”

  “Oh—why, I think it was Swiss roll, chocolate Swiss roll. A rather inappropriate breakfast.”

  At last he finished. He was tired and weak. He took a cigarette from the packet he’d bought at lunch. The superintendent lit it for him. Oddly enough he felt better now—a couple of hours’ nap and he’d be as right as rain.

  George lit his own pipe. He said something, but his words were obscured by the mouthpiece. Jordan asked him to repeat it.

  “I said, let’s just run through that again, shall we? There are one or two things I’m not quite clear about still. For instance, what was Singer wearing? What did you say to her and she to you? You must have conversed? It’d be useful if you could describe her room. Oh, yes—and did you touch her?”

  “I certainly didn’t touch her.”

  “Did she touch you then?”

  “No. She did not. Why should she?” His sense of purgation vanished—they didn’t believe him, after all this. They weren’t playing fair. All those soothing words meant nothing. He was filled with resentment. “Look, George, I’ve just about had enough of this.”

  “Well, it does seem a pity, now that you’re here, not to straighten out one or two last things. You’ve made a very clear statement,” good boy, full marks, “and there are only really a few minor loose ends to tie up. Why don’t we just dot the i’s and cross the t’s, as it were—and have done with it?”

  “Oh, alright.” Such a reasonable bloody bastard.

  Slowly, grindingly, he was taken through it all again, until he nearly cried out in agonized boredom. What did she wear? What did she say? What did you say? What did she say? Was there a cloth on the table? Milk in the coffee? Sugar? Was the bed made or unmade? Was this, was that …?

  And then, unexpectedly, while they were still apparently in the middle of it, George said suddenly, “Well, I think that’s quite satisfactory. I don’t think there’s anything else we need to go into now. You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Maddox. I wonder if I could ask you to wait just a few more minutes while Mr. Symington types your statement.” Symington had already gone. George rose now and smiled. “These things are always a bit trying, I’m afraid. You just make yourself comfortable now.” And then he, too, departed.

  Jordan smoked the last cigarette in the packet. He was a bit bewildered. One expected people, even the police, to behave in a reasonable fashion most of the time, and when they didn’t—just gave up or walked out on you—well, it was vaguely as though one had been let down. And that is what he felt—let down. He was too tired to be glad it was over. He was too tired to bother with the absurdity of it, although in the back of his mind there was a touch of worry that it had all been too easy (too easy! he smiled wearily). He was too tired even to look at his watch; he knew it was late. Willy would be worried. Let her worry.

  He dozed. He was wakened by the cigarette burning his fingers. He sat on, thinking of nothing, forgetting almost where he was. It was quite a shock when Symington returned and handed him the statement.

  Jordan had to force his mind to focus. It seemed fair enough—not like the other one yesterday. He took the pen Symington handed him and he signed it.

  “Just put the date and time at the bottom,” the inspector said. “It’s seven thirty-two.”

  So early. He was surprised. He wrote it down.

  “Well, there you are.” He handed pen and signed statement to Symington. He sat back. It was going to be a hell of an effort to get up.

  Symington stared at him critically. “Alright now, Maddox,” he snapped, “we’ll forget about the load of shit you been giving us, shall we?” He shook the statement. “What I want to know is why you killed her. Why’d you do it, Maddox? Why’d you have to knock off your little bit of fluff? WHY?”

  Unconsciously, he knew, he’d been expecting this assault. But the very expectation, admitted now, drained him of his defensive powers. God, how he loathed rows! The source of revivifying anger was buried so deep within him he could not draw upon it. Instead he would have to splash valiantly in the thin saucer of exasperation.

  “Now look here, Inspector. I’ve had just about enough of this … this bullying. I’ve half a mind to report you to the commissioner—or whoever it is.”

  “Threats now, Maddox. Threats, is it? Just like you threatened little June Singer, eh?”

  “I did not threaten June Singer! I had nothing to do with June Singer. I—”

  “I had nothing to do with June Singer,” Symington mimicked. And then savagely, “What about the scarf you strangled her with? What about the front doorkey you left on her table? What about those lovely flowers you brought her? What about the tussle you had? And the clock you knocked down? I s’pose you’ve forgotten all that too, Master Maddox!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He doesn’t know what I’m talking about! How your mother must have loved you, you lovely innocent little thing you. You’re—”

  “I’ve had enough of this, Symington. You’re not fit to—”

  “Don’t pull the old chicko on me, Maddox! You’re in real trouble, you are. You’ll have to forget about the officers’ mess now, laddie.”

  “I wasn’t ever in the army,” he said, hearing the feeble idiocy of it.

  “Nor were you now! Unfit, weren’t you? I keep forgetting you’re a sick man. Sick men should be in bed, Maddox—and I don’t mean in bed with their willing little secretaries.”

  “Symington!” Jordan stood up; his legs shook.

  “What bad luck she went and got herself pregnant, wasn’t it?”

  “Pregnant? June was pregnant?” He gripped the edge of the desk.

  “If you shoot your lot, you’ve got to expect the consequences, haven’t you? You’re not one to bother with precautions, are you? We know that.”

  “June pregnant. She couldn’t have been pregnant. I—”

  “Oh, very convincing, Maddox. All that time you were urging her to get rid of it. All that stuff she was taking. All fixed up nice to have an abortion—and then at the last minute she changes her mind? And you couldn’t stand that, could you, Maddox? You couldn’t have that. It would all come out then, wouldn’t it? That wouldn’t be officerlike conduct. That would be letting the side down.” Suddenly he was soothing. “Alright, Maddox. So you had to knock her off, didn’t you? We understand that. You didn’t have any choice. Now why don’t you just make a clean breast of it, eh? Save everyone a lot of trouble.”

  Jordan shivered. “You’re round the bend, Inspector. God knows what y
our motives are. I had nothing to do with June Singer’s death. I’ve signed my statement. Now I’m going.” But he did not move.

  “Now, Maddox. Why don’t you be reasonable? We know you did it. We can prove you did it. Listen, the pathologist says she died ten minutes to half an hour after ingesting a piece of chocolate cake. At most, half an hour, Maddox. Now that makes it you, doesn’t it? Come off it, Maddox. Sit down and get it off your chest—why not? I’ll get Mr. George in and you just make your statement and it’ll all be over. And then you can get a bit of shut-eye—you look as though you could do with it.”

  God, how he wanted to sit down, lie down. “I won’t,” he said. “I won’t sit down. You’re … I’m going to go.” He took his hand from the desk and went to the door, trying fiercely to stop the trembling in his legs. “I think—I think your behaviour is reprehensible.” As he left the room he saw Symington smile and pick up the phone.

  Jordan steadied himself against the wall and then began to walk down the corridor.

  A door opened and Chief Superintendent George came out so fast he almost knocked Jordan over.

  “I’m sorry. Nearly had a nasty accident there, didn’t we? So you’re off, are you, Mr. Maddox?”

  “I’ve only got one thing to say to you, George. That man of yours—Symington, he ought to be thrown out of the force. Thrown out of the human race.”

  “Symington? Oh dear oh dear. He’s a very good officer, he is. He’s just a bit keen. I shouldn’t let that worry you, Mr. Maddox.”

  “It doesn’t. Nothing worries me.” He moved, but George was blocking his path.

  “There’s just one thing, Mr. Maddox. I wonder if you’d oblige me. Only take a moment, I promise you.”

  “I’m not saying anything more.”

  “You don’t have to say a word. Just a little test. Won’t take five seconds. In here.” He’d taken Jordan’s arm and was leading him into the room he’d appeared from. “Nothing to it.”

  “Test? What do you mean? What for?”

  There was another man in the room; he smiled as Jordan entered. “This is Dr. Larraby.”

  The doctor kept smiling. “Ah. Now we’ll just roll up your sleeve, shall we, and … won’t take a moment.”

  “I demand to know what this is all about!”

  George said, “Just a skin test, Mr. Maddox. Quite simple.”

  The doctor was already swabbing his exposed arm.

  “What for? I don’t think …”

  “You don’t want to do it?” said George.

  The doctor paused, a metal instrument in his hand.

  “I didn’t say that,” Jordan said. “I just want to know—”

  “Ah,” said the doctor, “we just take a little nick out of your arm, very neat, very quick. Won’t even feel it. And there we are.”

  “But what for?”

  “For purposes of comparison,” said George.

  “Dammit, comparison with what?”

  “With other tissue, Mr. Maddox. Tissue found under the nails of June Singer’s right hand.”

  “No.” Jordan jerked his arm away.

  “You are refusing? Now why?”

  “I didn’t say I was refusing. I want to know more about it.”

  “Oh, well, it’s very scientific. The doctor will tell you that. It’s rather like those blood tests they take in paternity suits. You must have heard of them?”

  “I don’t see the relevance,” Jordan said. There was something here which should be quite clear to him. But at that particular moment he didn’t feel that anything would ever be clear to him again.

  “It’s like a negative test,” George said. “I’m not much of an authority on this sort of thing, I’m afraid. A bit above my head. But roughly, if your tissue and the tissue under the girl’s nails don’t match, well, then you’re in the clear.”

  “But if they do match?”

  “Well, they’re not going to, are they? Or are they?”

  “I …”

  “Are they? She inflicted a wound on some one in her death struggle. That person wasn’t you, Maddox, was it?”

  “No. No, of course not. I’ve told you that.”

  “Well then?” George smiled.

  Slowly Jordan raised his arm. The doctor’s hand moved down. There was no more than a pinprick. “I said you’d hardly feel it, didn’t I?” The doctor beamed.

  “Yes.” Something had gone wrong. He had made some ghastly mistake. He felt it. He knew it. But, for the life of him, he couldn’t sort it out in the stale brandied muddle of his brain.

  5

  “Sorry I’m late.” He paused with his overcoat half off his shoulders. “Is anything the matter?”

  She stood in the kitchen doorway, looking at him, silent.

  “Is it Georgia? There’s nothing wrong with—”

  She shook her head quickly. “Where have you been, Jordan?”

  He had prepared himself for this with two stiff drinks at the White Hart on the way home.

  “I had some catching up to do at the office. It’s been a bad week for work, particularly with June not …”

  “Tom rang me.”

  “Oh, did he?” He wasn’t surprised. People seemed to be making a habit of going back on their words lately.

  “I’ve been ringing the office all afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes. Well, I spent a bit of time in the National Portrait Gallery.” He laughed. “Wanted to think.” Actually the Portrait Gallery was the blessed place for not thinking; the faces of the past were as alive as ever, but their troubles were all comfortably disarmed of any power for present damage.

  “Why didn’t you phone me? You always phone me when you’re going to be late.” She hadn’t moved from the doorway.

  “Always, always.” He smiled to mask the irritation. “I just got completely immersed—you know, that manuscript on the village idiot’s sex life.”

  She stepped towards him. “Did you go to the police?”

  “What? Oh, yes. I did pop round to see them.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I did the talking. Not them.”

  “Tom said …”

  “Yes, yes. I gave them a statement, as Tom said I should.”

  “Jordan, I’m worried.”

  “There’s absolutely nothing to be worried about, old girl. Didn’t Tom tell you that? Absolutely nothing.”

  Her face was tight so that her cheekbones stood out and the hollows of her cheeks were deeper than ever.

  He was suddenly touched. “Don’t cry,” he said.

  “Of course not.” She jerked her head. In all their years of marriage he had never once seen her cry.

  He came close to her and she put up her cheek for him to kiss.

  “Did you have anything to eat?” she asked.

  “No. Forgot all about it.”

  She frowned. “You poor lamb, you must be starving.”

  “Not a bit. Couldn’t eat a thing.”

  “You must have something. I’ll get you some tea—and toast.”

  “That would be nice.” He watched her go back into the kitchen. “I’ll just go up and look in on Georgia,” he called.

  In the dim light from the open door he looked down on his daughter, awry with sleep. She was beautiful. Even if she had been somebody else’s child, he thought, she would be beautiful. He hadn’t really wanted Georgia when Willy had first told him. It had not been Georgia then, of course; just an object, just another thing which would have to be attended to. That’s what he must have thought, because he could not fully remember now. He had been totally unprepared for Georgia’s sensual softness and for the effortless answer that it evoked in him.

  Nothing else in the world really mattered but Georgia. If he were arrested, they would keep it from Georgia. She could not read, thank God, and they would take her out of kindergarten for a while so that the other children, the knowing ones, would have no opportunity to tell her. She would be protected against knowledge of that meaningless, cru
el accident. And it would make the severance more bearable for him too. She must be undisturbed by any rumour of war.

  He bent and kissed her lightly.

  Downstairs in the living room, Willy was waiting. She gave him a fleeting bird smile and bent her head to pour the tea. She performed the ritual movements abruptly, as if to admit a soothing quality would be a weakness.

  She handed him the cup. All she did was like this: quick, abrupt. Even love, the hard jerky movements, like a dog shaking off drops of water after an unwanted bath.

  He took a piece of toast. “You mustn’t be upset,” he said.

  “I’m alright.” She glanced at him. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  He slopped a little tea into his saucer. “What did Tom tell you?”

  “Everything.”

  “That’s not much, is it?” He smiled. He could almost hear her thoughts clicking: Don’t be frivolous, Jordan. He walked around a little and set his cup and half-eaten piece of toast on the mantelpiece. “He told you about my visit to June’s flat, then?”

  “Yes.”

  He hesitated. She made it hard work. “And why I went there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Idiotic of me to have gone, as it turns out.”

  “It was rather silly.”

  “Silly?”

  “You know how people talk.”

  “Oh, really! Who was there to talk?”

  “Miss Singer. And there must have been other people in the house.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be talking about no smoke without fire in a minute.”