by Jill McGown
‘We’ll let you get on,’ Lloyd said to Mrs Knight. He turned to go, then turned back. ‘You wouldn’t know where we’d be likely to find Sam Waters at this time of day, would you?’
She looked at her watch. ‘Well,’ she said, with a look that suggested a private joke, ‘it’s just possible that you’ll find him in the car park.’
Half past two. Sam came to the conclusion that Caroline was not going to meet him.
He got out of the car just as another car pulled in, containing the chief inspector and his sidekick. Good legs, he noticed, as Sergeant Hill emerged from the car into the fine snow that had again begun to fall. In fact, she was all right, was Detective Sergeant Hill.
‘Mr Waters,’ said Lloyd. ‘Just the man we want to see.’ He walked up to him. ‘Perhaps we could go inside?’
‘Perhaps you couldn’t,’ said Sam. ‘What do you want this time? Found tell-tale strands of navy blue velvet on the corpse?’
Lloyd blinked a little against the rain. ‘Does Mrs Hamlyn’s death touch you at all?’ he asked.
Sam shook his head, then nodded to indicate a concession. ‘As a facility, she will be sorely missed,’ he said. ‘By some.’
The sergeant held up a plastic bag. ‘Have you ever seen this?’ she asked.
He walked slowly up to her, and looked at the pen enclosed in the bag, his eyes widening in mock excitement. ‘Is it a clue?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘Don’t tell me – it’s the murder weapon, isn’t it?’
Lloyd came up to him again, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. ‘What do you suppose the murder weapon was, Mr Waters?’ he asked.
‘I know this bit,’ said Sam. ‘I say I didn’t kill her by stabbing her with a poisoned fountain pen, and you say how do I know she was poisoned. Right?’
‘No,’ said the sergeant. ‘I say how do you know it’s a fountain pen?’
Sam’s eyebrows rose, then he laughed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘For that, you can come in out of the cold.’
Sam let them into the flat, where the gas fire was belting out heat. He snapped it off and invited them to sit down, pleased that Sergeant Hill was there. He was going to have a little fun with the chief inspector’s sense of fitness. And she was nice to look at. He wondered if Newby had even noticed her last night. She was his type: dark and slim, like Caroline. But Newby had been in a bad way, and none too comfortable, with the police there. Sam would be willing to bet that Newby couldn’t even say what Sergeant Hill looked like.
‘It’s my pen,’ he said. ‘It went missing – but I don’t suppose you’re going to believe that.’
‘When did it go missing?’ the sergeant asked.
‘Last night,’ said Sam. ‘I know I had it at dinner. I had to put some finishing touches to my speech. I thought I’d left it on the table.’
‘Who was at your table?’
Sam grinned. ‘Mr and Mrs Treadwell, Mr and Mrs Hamlyn, myself, some boring old fart of a governor and his good lady wife – I don’t know their names, but I’ve no doubt Barry Treadwell does. Failing that, try Caroline Knight – she invited them.’
‘When did you notice it had gone?’
‘When I put my jacket on to leave the Hamlyns’ flat,’ he said. ‘I had been visiting Caroline,’ he added, by way of explanation. ‘It wasn’t there, so I looked outside for it, but it was too dark.’
‘Where did you look for it?’
‘I took a walk back across the playing-field,’ said Sam.
‘Are you sure you were still in the Hamlyns’ flat when you noticed it had gone?’ asked Lloyd.
‘Yes,’ said Sam.
‘What made you notice?’
‘I had had it in the inside pocket,’ Sam explained, with great patience. ‘The jacket was over a chair, with the inside pocket visible, and the pen wasn’t there. Why in God’s name do you want to know that?’
‘It seems to me that it could have been when you were changing your clothes that you noticed the pen was gone,’ said Lloyd. ‘You know, transferring things from one set of clothes to the other.’
Sam frowned. ‘Well, it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘And so what, if it had been?’
‘Then we could be examining the wrong clothes,’ said Lloyd.
Christ. Sam went into the bedroom, picked up the jeans and sweater that still lay on the floor where he’d left them, and threw them down on to the sofa. ‘I was wearing the dinner-jacket when I looked for the pen,’ he said. ‘It started to pour down while I was out – that’s why it was still damp. I thought you were supposed to be a detective? But you’re welcome to waste your time on these if you like.’
Lloyd was looking out of the window, his back to him. ‘Thank you, Mr Waters,’ he said. ‘Of course, you are under no obligation. I appreciate your co-operation.’
Sam offered a suggestion as to what Lloyd could do with the clothes. ‘Or get the sergeant here to do it for you,’ he added. ‘I’m sure she knows her way around.’
Lloyd turned from the window, his face dark and angry, as Sam stared at him defiantly. Sergeant Hill had taken it in her stride. Pity. He’d much rather ruffle her feathers – Lloyd was too easy.
‘Well, Sergeant,’ said Lloyd. ‘The thefts are your province, I believe. Perhaps you could deal with that now?’
Sam felt the chill as she looked at Lloyd, and stood up. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr Waters.’
‘That’s it,’ said Sam. ‘Put ’em in their place.’
She didn’t exactly slam the door. She shut it very firmly. Sam grinned.
‘Why didn’t you tell us before that you went to see Caroline Knight?’ Lloyd asked, in a sudden and disorientating change of subject.
Sam sighed. ‘Where were you between ten and midnight last night?’ he asked.
‘Just answer the question,’ Lloyd said wearily. ‘You left the Hall at nine-thirty. What did you do then?’
‘Before or after I raped and murdered Diana Hamlyn?’ Sam asked earnestly.
‘She was very probably raped and quite definitely murdered,’ said Lloyd. ‘It may be a joke to you, Mr Waters, but no one else finds it very funny.’
Sam smiled. ‘I see it’s turned into very probable rape,’ he said. ‘Very improbable would be a more suitable description – I’m aware of your interest in such things.’
‘Mrs Knight has told us what happened between you and her last night, so you had better stop trying to be clever,’ said Lloyd.
Sam felt as if he had been punched. ‘The bitch,’ he said, almost to himself, then looked at the chief inspector, waiting for him to say something. ‘Nothing happened!’ he shouted, when Lloyd remained silent. ‘I misread the signals, that’s all. I was more bothered about the bloody pen than I was about Mrs Knight, I can tell you that.’
‘All right. You failed to find the pen. Then what did you do?’
‘Came back here, changed my clothes, and went out.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘I went to a club in Stansfield.’
‘What time did you leave here?’ asked Lloyd.
‘I don’t know!’
‘Just tell me,’ Lloyd said wearily. ‘A straight answer wouldn’t go wrong, Mr Waters.’
‘After eleven. Ten, quarter past. I don’t know. I wasn’t checking my watch.’
‘Did anyone see you leave?’
Sam shrugged.
‘Mrs Knight thinks someone was watching her last night. From the fire-escape – around eleven.’
‘Oh – I’m a Peeping Tom now? The woman’s paranoid, that’s her trouble.’
‘Did you see anyone hanging around?’ Lloyd asked, raising his voice slightly.
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose this club has a name?’
Sam told him, and Lloyd wrote it down. He gathered up the clothes. ‘You left Mrs Knight at ten past ten or so. Where exactly were you between then and eleven-fifteen?’
‘Here, mostly.’
‘Alone?’ He walked over to the
window, his back to Sam.
‘Alone.’
‘But you looked for the pen before you came back here.’
‘Correct.’
‘Did you see Mrs Hamlyn while you were out?’
‘I didn’t have to step over her corpse,’ Sam said. ‘If that’s any help.’
‘Did you see Mrs Hamlyn?’ Lloyd repeated, getting angry.
‘Yes, I saw her.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us that?’
Sam smiled. ‘You didn’t ask until now,’ he said.
‘When you saw Mrs Hamlyn,’ Lloyd said, turning slowly to face him, ‘did you speak to her?’
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘She wasn’t alone.’
‘You saw her with someone, and didn’t bother mentioning that to us?’ he asked, his voice low. ‘Who was she with?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Sam. ‘I just saw his back view for a few seconds. They were going into the Barn. I can tell you what he was wearing,’ he said. ‘But it won’t narrow the field much.’
Lloyd nodded. ‘Dinner-jackets,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, they weren’t all as distinctive as yours.’
Sam looked at him for a moment. ‘I didn’t see a dinner-jacket,’ he said.
Lloyd looked up sharply. ‘What the hell did you see, then?’ he shouted.
Sam smiled. ‘I saw a school blazer,’ he said.
They were in a burger bar in the Square – the centre of Stansfield’s main shopping area. Outside, the afternoon light faded, and people walked, heads down against the incessant hard sleet which was turning inexorably back into snow; inside, they talked and laughed, and ate and drank, complained about the weather and their children’s inability to keep still, or their unwillingness to eat what they had ordered.
‘Would you like me to take that back?’ Caroline asked, nodding at the box on the seat beside Philip.
‘Sorry?’ he said.
Pushing up the folds of her skirt . . .
He replayed her question with difficulty. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He glanced at the box. He didn’t know what to do about it, really. Did they just accept that things might happen to hired clothes?
His fingers moving over nylon, finding bare skin . . .
She had seen him just as he was getting into the car to come here. He mustn’t drive, she’d said. She would take him to the town. She was going anyway.
The muscles of her thigh growing taut to his touch; the brush of silk on his hand . . .
‘It’s just that it is a bit slippery out there,’ she said. ‘I could take it and meet you back here – unless you’ve something else to do.’
Touching her through the thin material . . .
‘No,’ he said. ‘But it’s all right – I’ll take it myself.’
Pressing his hand between her thighs; her breath catching in her throat . . .
‘If you’re sure,’ she said. ‘We’ll meet back at the car, shall we? In what – ten, fifteen minutes?’
‘Better make it fifteen,’ he said, reaching for his stick.
She buttoned up her coat as she got to the door, shivering as she stepped out, and they went their separate ways.
They just took the box; didn’t even open it. Philip escaped from the men’s outfitters, and walked cautiously over paving that seemed designed to catch him out. His back ached, his leg felt numb.
She had locked the car; sensible precaution. Things happened when you didn’t. He stood for some time in the wind-driven snow that drenched the top deck of the car park.
‘Philip, I’m sorry!’ She came hurrying over to him. ‘Did I lock you out?’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve just arrived.’
It was getting worse; he could barely bend to get into the car.
‘Philip – have you got a doctor in Stansfield?’ she asked.
‘Not yet,’ he answered, as the pain made him close his eyes until it subsided.
‘You should see someone,’ she said, as he finally sat beside her.
‘I’m fine.’
And he was; he had no stiffness, no aches, no gripping pain as he began all over again, starting with her coat. He never needed to undress; magically, his clothes disappeared. No slow, painful process of removing them. But he removed hers, item by item.
Slipping the blouse off; putting a hand to her hair, releasing it, letting it fall over her bared shoulders. Unfastening her brassiere; drawing it away. Touching the small round breasts, his fingers moving delicately over the silk-soft skin; removing her skirt, her slip, revealing French knickers . . .
Not Marks & Spencer briefs.
‘Would you like to come up for a drink?’ she asked, as she pulled into the school car park.
Drawing her close, feeling firm buttocks under the soft, soft silk . . .
‘That would be nice,’ he said, wondering if he would manage the stairs.
She stopped the car, and he had to work out how to get out of it again. As he planted his stick on the ground, and heaved himself up from the seat, his eye met a faintly familiar figure. He looked up to see the police officers who had arrived with Sam the night before.
‘Mr Newby?’ the man said.
Chief Inspector Lloyd. Chief Inspector Lloyd. His mantra.
‘Could we have a word, do you think?’
Philip turned to Caroline. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘That’s all right.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps later?’
Later, he would be even more stiff. Later, he would be frightened of the stairs, and of her. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.
She ran up to her flat. If he could run; if he could run after her, chasing her, catching her. They would laugh, and hug . . .
He opened the door, and the flat was empty. Sam had turned the fire off. Damn the man – didn’t he ever feel the cold? Of course he did. But it was macho not to care. Philip picked up the big box of matches he had purchased as a hint, and addressed himself to the task of getting down far enough to light the jets.
‘I’ll do it,’ the girl said, smiling.
‘I can do it!’
She looked a little startled. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘No. I’m . . . You’re right.’ Philip handed her the box of matches. ‘I can’t do anything much,’ he muttered through his teeth.
The fire’s glow lit the darkening room. ‘What do you want?’ Philip asked.
‘You were at the ball last night, Mr Newby.’
Philip nodded. Chief Inspector Lloyd, Chief Inspector Lloyd, he thought, as the pain gripped his back.
‘Why did you leave?’
Chief Inspector Lloyd, Chief . . . ‘Sorry?’ he said, too busy fighting the pain to hear what he had said. ‘What did you ask me?’
‘Can you tell us why you left early last night?’
‘I was sick,’ Philip said. ‘I have to take pills. The doctor told me not to drink too much, but I did, and now I know why I shouldn’t.’
The chief inspector nodded. The woman was taking out a notebook.
‘What time did you leave the Hall?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. I was just about to throw up.’
‘We’ve been told twenty past ten,’ said Lloyd. ‘Would you agree?’
Philip nodded.
‘Mrs Hamlyn left at quarter past. Did you see her at all?’
‘No,’ said Philip, as his fists clenched. Carefully, deliberately, he relaxed his hands. ‘Not in the gents’.’
‘How long were you in there?’
‘About half an hour,’ Philip said, blinking with pain. He shifted his feet slightly, in the hope that that would ease the ache, but it didn’t. ‘It was busy, with the speeches having finished. I waited until everyone was gone before I came out. And I know what time that was. It was ten to eleven.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I came here.’
Sam came in then, and acknowledged Lloyd and Sergeant Hill. ‘Are you going to take a look at his dinner-jacket, or is that reserved for me?’ he asked.
‘I’ve taken it back to the shop.’ Philip twisted round to look at Sam; it was a mistake. He held his breath for a moment, as his back seized.
‘Highly suspicious, wouldn’t you say, Mr Lloyd?’
‘You left the Hall at ten to eleven, and came directly here?’ Lloyd repeated, ignoring Sam.
‘Yes,’ said Philip. He felt the pain subside; he turned slowly to face them.
Sam walked into his line of vision, tutting, shaking his head, as though Philip had played a bad shot. He sat on the sofa, smiling slightly. Philip stared at him.
‘Mr Waters says he was here alone until after eleven,’ said the chief inspector.
Philip’s head began to clear a little, and his heartbeat slowly returned to normal. Maybe he could sit down. He moved towards the sofa, and leaned heavily on the unfamiliar stick, lowering himself carefully down.
‘I didn’t come in,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want company.’
‘Where did you go?’
Philip thought for an instant before he answered. ‘To the car park,’ he said. ‘I sat in the car.’
Sam tutted again.
Lloyd turned to him. ‘You have something to say, Mr Waters?’
‘His car was in the car park,’ said Sam. ‘He wasn’t in it.’
‘Mr Newby?’
‘Sam must have just missed me,’ said Philip, feeling flustered. ‘I didn’t stay in the car. I took a walk.’
‘Weak,’ said Sam. ‘They don’t like people who don’t behave the way they think they should. They always do very definite things at very definite times and make a note of the witnesses present.’
‘Wasn’t it raining?’ asked the sergeant.
‘That’s why you’re so stiff,’ said Sam archly. ‘Walking about in the pouring rain like that.’
‘Mr Newby,’ said Lloyd. ‘Did you see anyone in the car park?’
‘Sam. I saw him leave. And – and maybe someone else.’
‘Maybe?’
Philip couldn’t be sure. He could have sworn, at the time, but, then, he had had a lot to drink. ‘I was in the car with the window down,’ he said. ‘And I thought I heard someone on the fire-escape.’ He looked up. ‘There seemed to be a figure, but it might have been a shadow, or something. That’s why I got out. That’s why I was walking about in the rain,’ he added, addressing himself to the sergeant. He found himself speaking almost at dictation pace as she noted everything down.
