Of course, in this instance, another reason for me not to explain anything was that I didn’t understand anything. The only theory that made any sense at all to me at the moment was that Lady Arking had gone to a lot of trouble to frame me for murder, and that seemed unlikely.
Which brings me to a third thing to avoid. Whatever you do, do not evoke the names of powerful friends. It irks the cops, and rightly so. It can make them spiteful. They’ve busted you; they’ll investigate you. They’ll find out about your powerful friends soon enough and will be more impressed for the delay.
This was a subordinate reason for my not mentioning Lady Arking. The main one, however, was the fact that I wanted to ask her ladyship a few questions of my own before I turned the cops loose on her. At that point, in fact, as I was led to one of London’s really hideous police cars (white, blue, and Day-Glo orange and magenta, nicknamed a “panda”—don’t ask me), asking Pammy baby a few questions was my chief desire in life.
The fourth thing to avoid is uttering anything you’ll regret later, like “Well, you got me,” or, “It’s a fair cop, guv.”
Fifth, you’ve got to keep innocent outsiders from gumming up the works. Roxanne Schick was now showing her style at crowd-elbowing, bearing down on the police car with fire in her eyes. I caught her gaze and gave her a rapid shake of my head.
Sixth and last, what you do say is, “Yes, gentlemen, I’ll make no trouble for you, and I wish to talk to my solicitor as soon as possible.”
You can say this as many times as you like, but you must say nothing else, aside from giving your name and address and asking if you can use the bathroom. In this case, I said it really loud, so that Roxanne would hear me, and would get the solicitor thing in motion.
It was a quiet trip to the station. I was locked in a caged back seat with insufficient leg and headroom, and PC Staines concentrated on his driving.
I soon learned one of the disadvantages of living in a foreign country. Back in the States, Roxanne would have had Vincent Bugliosi awaiting my arrival on the steps of the police station. As it was, I had to wait.
And wait. I was booked in and printed. I had my belt, money, passport, and shoelaces taken away from me. I got to keep a receipt. I was taken to an interrogation room that was an awful lot like a lot of interrogation rooms in the States, right down to the phony one-way mirror.
They locked me in and left me alone. Maybe they expected me to walk up to the mirror, rub my chin and say, “Gee, who would ever believe that’s the face of a man who shot down another man in cold blood just an hour and a half ago?”
If they were hoping for that, I didn’t oblige them. I did stand up to pace a few times, but that was a huge dissatisfaction, since my sneakers flopped on my feet and my pants fell down every time I tried it.
The chair was hard and uncomfortable—there was no other chair, when they finally got around to interrogating me, they’d have to bring their own—I thought of sitting on the floor, but I figured they’d read something psychological into that. This case was complicated enough without bringing shrinks into it.
After about an hour, somebody popped in and offered me a cup of tea, which I accepted. It was good. An hour and forty minutes after that they popped in and offered me pizza.
They’d taken my watch, but I was born with this innate sense that always lets me know what time it is within ten minutes or so. When we first moved in together, Roxanne would wake me up from a sound sleep to test me. I was messed up for a few days after we flew to London, but whatever it is soon adjusted. Roxanne probably still thinks it’s a trick, but it’s not. It’s what you call a mixed blessing.
On the one hand, you virtually never burn the rice. On the other hand you can lose a lot of sleep to skeptical girlfriends.
Another drawback is that when you’re sitting in an ugly little room with only a phony mirror for company, you are aware of every second as it drags on by.
Another hour and a half, and despite my huge lunch, despite the stuff they put on pizzas in England (sweet corn? olives with pits? mashed potatoes? all of those, and worse), I was beginning to regret not having had a slice.
It wasn’t too long after that, though, that somebody came into the room. He was in shirtsleeves and tie. He was almost as tall as I am, but thinner. He was in his forties, I guessed, with a crinkly face and dark hair that he parted low and combed sideways to cover a bald spot. He was carrying a chair that looked a lot nicer than the one I was sitting on.
Holding on to my pants, I rose to greet him.
He didn’t offer to shake hands, but he did smile at me and tell me to sit down. He plopped his chair down and sat himself.
“Hello, Mr. Cobb, is it?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“I am Detective Inspector Fred Bristow. Sorry to have kept you waiting so long, but you understand we must have time to investigate so that we have intelligent questions to ask you?”
“Sure,” I said. “I understand. Just the way I need to talk to my solicitor before I answer any questions. And I’m awfully sorry about that. It’s been hours. I would have bet anything that he would be here by now.”
“Have you had a chance to phone?”
We were both being so damnably civilized, I could barely stand it. Hypocritical, too. At least he was. He knew damn well I hadn’t had a chance to call anybody.
“I’ll just wait until he arrives,” I said.
“As you wish. Do you mind if I talk to you for a while?”
I couldn’t stop him if I did mind. I gestured graciously for him to go ahead. I might learn something.
“The man you shot was Joseph Aliou. Did you have a reason for shooting him?”
“You know, Inspector,” I said, “I’ll bet you have a million questions, and I’ll bet I’ve got an answer for every one of them. But not till after I speak to my solicitor.”
So he stopped asking me questions. Instead he stated some of the case against me, then raised an eyebrow as if to say, what do you think of that?
“We have a dozen witnesses who say you assaulted Aliou just seconds before he was shot.”
Of course, if I’d been talking, I could have pointed out that “assaulted” was a loaded word undoubtedly put into the witnesses’ mouths by the investigators. I could also point out that he had no witnesses at all that actually saw me shoot anybody.
“You shot him, then, when you heard one of the bystanders say, ‘There he is,’ you knew you’d been identified, and you ran. You ditched the gun somewhere before Constable Staines caught up to you. We’ll find it.”
I had to give him this much—he was good. He was leaving lots of good holes for me to jump into, trying to get me to start talking. I was literally aching to tell him that if he found it or didn’t, it was no skin off my American ass, since something as simple as a paraffin test would show I hadn’t so much as set off a Guy Fawkes Day firework.
“When your solicitor gets here,” he said, “perhaps you’d like to explain why an envelope found in the dead man’s hand has your fingerprints on it, and the one you were carrying had his.”
I conceded it was possible.
“You might also prevail upon him to let you explain why the one he had contained postal money orders payable to bearer in the total of five thousand pounds, and why the one you carried contained a broacher for the B. E. Peters School of English.”
“A what?” I said.
“A broacher. A flyer. An information sheet.”
“Ah,” I said. Actually, I knew all along he was trying to say brochure, and failing the same way all his countrymen did, but I thought I’d gain at least a little control of the situation.
Call it revenge. I am not a patient person by nature. I’m the kind of person who keeps burning his hand on the side of the slow cooker because I can’t actually see or hear it doing anything. I have to, as my mother put it, command patience; I don’t have a lot naturally. Sometimes I have to be quite stern with it. Sometimes, I have to squeeze my
brain like an empty toothpaste tube in order to find some.
There was a war of nerves going on, and my only sensible strategy called for my not firing a shot. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, a bitch. I didn’t even want to let him see me grit my teeth.
Finally, he left. Only about fifteen minutes went by before somebody got let in to see me. He was compact, blond, brisk, and businesslike, and somehow, he made me feel better just to look at him.
He handed me his card—Thomas David Williams, Solicitor, and the name and address of a big firm. That was about as Welsh a name as you could get, and the voice backed it up, with the rolling, drumlike cadences of that principality.
“Well then,” he said. “Let’s get down to business.”
“Suits me.”
“However did you get in this mess?”
“Let me ask you a couple of questions first, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Are our communications privileged?”
“They are. Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to know,” I said. “I never expected to get in trouble with the law here, and I didn’t check.”
“Yes, the privilege is absolute, just like in America.”
“Good. You’re likely to hear a lot more that way.” I suddenly realized how tired I was. I yawned and stretched and said, “What took you so long?”
This brought a grim chuckle. “I haven’t been quite as long as that, you know. The bastards kept me cooling my heels outside for a good ninety minutes. They seem quite upset with you. They’re afraid this is a race killing and there are going to be riots. They’d like to hand you over on a platter to quiet them down.”
“It wasn’t a race murder,” I said. “At least not the kind they’re thinking of. The real killer was black.”
“I think they’ll be delighted to hear that, if you can back it up.”
“Bunch of people must have seen me chasing the other guy,” I mused, “but try to find them now.”
Thomas David Williams said, “Ah,” and pulled out a notebook. “You were chasing the real killer, then. That’s why you were running from the scene of the crime.”
“Yes, I was trying to do my duty as a good visitor with an extended visa.”
“Yes, independent means. The lovely Miss Schick was telling me. The kind of visitor the nation likes most to have. If they can avoid getting into trouble, that is.”
“Mmmm,” I said. “How is Roxanne?”
“Worried about you. And angry. Ready to take Scotland Yard apart brick by brick with her bare hands if she doesn’t get satisfaction. That was another reason my arrival was delayed.”
“What else? Did somebody try to get to you?”
“Get to me?”
“Try to keep you off the case?”
“No. Why should they?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been sitting here developing hemorrhoids on this rotten chair while the world outside has gone on spinning.” Then I thought of something. “Hey, you’re my solicitor, right?”
“I have been so engaged, yes.” I didn’t blame him for the note of caution in his voice—my face must have looked pretty maniacal by that point.
“You’re supposed to look out for me and take care of me, right?”
“Well ... within the law, yes.”
“Don’t worry, this is perfectly legal. Switch seats with me, okay?”
Williams looked dubious, but he got up and circled the table. I did likewise, then sat. The cushioned bottom of the chair brightened my whole outlook.
“So,” I said. “What did keep you?”
“Well, it is Sunday afternoon, you know. I was with my family at our weekend place in Essex when Sir Bascombe rang me on the phone.”
“And you had to drive in.”
“That’s right, and the traffic was a nightmare, I can tell you.”
I believed him. I personally wouldn’t drive in this country on a bet, even aside from the fact that they drive on the wrong side of the road. For one thing, this isn’t that big an island, and there are too many cars on it. Like my native Manhattan, but not as bad. For another thing—and this is the clincher—gas costs about three bucks a gallon.
“Why you?” I asked. “There must have been someone in town.”
Williams smiled for the first time.
“Listen, boyo,” he said, just to throw a little extra Welshness on me, “I’m the major crime specialist of our firm. I’m very good at it. Not that I care for it much, mind you. I’d much rather be doing contracts and property and other nice, clean pursuits. But this is a prestigious firm, and when I go out on my own someday, it will look good for me to have been there. Everybody else at the firm went to public schools, and half their fathers worked for Tomlinson, Swath, Tomlinson, Sweggar & Peach before them. I went to a council school, and my father worked in a bloody coal mine. Do you understand me?”
“Better than you think,” I told him. “Story sounds kind of familiar, as a matter of fact.”
“You?”
“More or less. The actual notes are different, but the chords are the same.”
“It can’t be exactly the same. You can’t break the class system in Britain, but you can bend it until it creaks, and that’s what I intend to do.”
“And God bless you in your endeavors. Who’s Sir Bascombe?”
“Sir Bascombe Tomlinson. The second Tomlinson in the name of the firm. Brother of the first. Senior surviving member.”
“I’m impressed,” I said. “I didn’t think even Roxanne had enough juice in this country to roust a knight—knight or baronet?”
“Knight. Sir Bascombe is quite active in charities. Law reform, widows and orphans, homes for aged and retired foxhounds, things like that.”
“I’m impressed that even she was able to roust someone like him—I remember him now from the Times—on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Oh, it wasn’t just her.”
“No?”
“No, indeed. Your lovely friend descended on Sir Bascombe’s Sunday dinner in Sloane Square unannounced and in the company of no less a personage than Pamela, Lady Arking.”
“Lady Arking,” I said, not sure if I liked it.
“She is a major client of the firm,” Williams said. “Of course, I have never had any personal dealings with her.”
“Wait awhile,” I said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Williams, who are you working for?”
“That can be interpreted as a very offensive question, Mr. Cobb.”
“I don’t mean it to be. I’d just like to hear your answer.”
“I am employed by Tomlinson, Swath, Tomlinson, Sweggar & Peach. My fee, as I understand it, is to be paid by Miss Schick. But my client first, last, and always, is you.” He stared at me. “Unless you desire some other arrangement.”
“Nah,” I said. “I like you fine. I’m just warning you, you may be starting your own firm sooner than you think.”
I dumped the bag for him, all of it, from the time I walked through the door of TVStrato to the time PC Staines rode me like a luge down the stairway to the tube.
“Sweet Jesus,” he said when I was done.
“My sentiments exactly,” I told him. “Now how about getting the cops to give me a paraffin test and get me the hell out of here?”
8
“Now it’s your turn in the Spotlight Round.”
Noel Edmunds
Telly Addicts, BBC
OF COURSE, IT WASN’T as easy as that.
In fact, it was so much less easy than that that it turned out to be impossible.
The first thing I decided was to keep Lady Arking out of it for the time being. Williams immediately proved that he meant that stuff about my being the one and only client by informing me I was nuts.
“I think you’re carrying chivalry a little too far, my friend,” he told me. “If you were to inform them about Lady Arking’s connection in this matter—”
“Connection?” I protested
. “She’s the whole thing!”
“That just emphasizes my point further. If you want to get out of this cell, that is the quickest way. They’ll flock to her like bees to the queen, and they’ll bring you with them to confront her.”
“Right. And she calls me a dirty, rotten liar, and I go into a dungeon for a hundred years.”
“I won’t let that happen,” he said. He thought about it for a few seconds. “Not for a hundred years,” he added.
“Yeah,” I said. “I was exaggerating, but you get the idea.”
“You don’t want to mention her, then.”
“No. Let’s save her ladyship for some time when we’ve got enough leverage to make it stick.”
“All right,” he said. “This isn’t going to please our friends in blue—”
“They’re big boys now. Or should I say boyos?”
“Stick to saying boys and leave the music-hall taffy to me, hey? Mind you, tell them no lies. If we have to reveal all we know, any lie told now will make things worse.”
“‘A truth that’s told with bad intent,’” I quoted, “‘beats any lie you can invent.’”
He favored me with another of his rare smiles. “Brilliant, man. You have put your finger on the whole set of the practice of the law.”
Williams went to the hallway and called the cops.
It was Bristow again. He saw us, excused himself, and came back with another chair. It wasn’t as good as the one I’d appropriated, but he didn’t try to get it back.
“Right!” he said briskly, as if encouraged to be under way at last. “So you’re ready to tell your story, then?”
And I did, with every word strictly true. Not copiously true, I’ll admit, but there wasn’t a lie in the lot.
The way I told it, my fiancée and I had just finished lunch and were going to go up to Shaftesbury Avenue to get a bus back across the river, when I felt a sudden urge for a copy of the Sunday Telegraph, having already read the Times at home.
Killed in the Fog Page 5
