An Alibi Too Soon

by Roger Ormerod

  ‘You’re wet through,’ said Rosemary, meeting me in the corridor.

  It was only then that I remembered the two umbrellas in the car. ‘It doesn’t matter. I shan’t be staying long.’

  This was a changed Rosemary, a younger woman with light in her eyes and a softer, more feminine stance. She touched my arm, as though we shared a secret.

  ‘I hoped you’d stay. Just for a short while, Richard.’

  ‘He’s here, isn’t he?’

  ‘I shall be making an announcement,’ she told me. ‘We shall, Duncan and I, but of course he said I had to do the talking. And you’ll be interested, I’m sure, in the way we’ve sorted things out.’

  ‘Greenslade…’

  ‘We were talking half the night. What we were going to do and how. The copyright thing is going to be very difficult to sort out, and we decided the legal complications would take too long.’

  Her eyes were shining up at me. It was difficult for her to stop talking, so that when she did the silence drew more attention than a shout. I said gravely:

  ‘Legal matters always do.’

  ‘And there’ll be enough argument over the pardon business.’

  Now she had my full attention. I’d perhaps been wrong to believe he’d be side-tracked from it; she had been wrong to suggest that he would.

  ‘We’ll need your help over that, Richard.’ Now it was their pardon.

  ‘Any way I can be of assistance,’ I promised, wildly perhaps, but I was wet and beginning to feel cold in that draughty corridor. I wondered how they could possibly pursue the question of the pardon, if she intended to continue to deny she had bought the drinks that were in the Dolomite’s boot.

  ‘And we’ll need to discuss that some time,’ she said, nodding, fixing me with a very suggestive look. ‘There’s something I must tell you. But not now,’ she went on hurriedly, interpreting my expression. ‘You run along and see Clyde, and then come to the dining room for the announcement.’

  The announcement! She gave it the importance of a PM’s statement to the House.

  ‘Don’t expect me to advise you on the law of contracts,’ I said.

  She slapped my arm. ‘Silly. Clyde’s in my workroom. Run along, now.’

  ‘What announcement?’

  ‘The simplest contract of them all,’ she said mysteriously.

  She whisked her way along the corridor so briskly that my belated ‘Congratulations’ was murmured to a closed door.

  I didn’t have time to work out how that affected the situation. Clyde Greenslade was waiting. More important, Amelia was. I headed for the workroom.

  He had been described as a bladder of lard. There had been mention of porn—soft, medium or hard-boiled. An impression was implanted in my mind of loose wet lips and lascivious eyes, a suggestive, perhaps lisping voice. Greenslade was therefore a surprise. Yes, he was huge. I’d expected to find him collapsed, limply subsiding into one of the easy chairs, but there was not one chair that would have accommodated him.

  He stood in front of the bookcase, six feet three inches of solid bone and muscle, fat only towards the hips, like a pear with his head perched on the thin end. No neck. A shock of dark hair, so ridiculously precise that it had to be a wig. So he was vain. His eyes, level and daunting, certainly indicated no modesty. The fist, clamped round a glass of something clear and bubbling, would have swallowed and mashed mine, if I’d let him have it. But he gave no indication of wishing to shake hands, merely nodded to one of the chairs in invitation.

  ‘Patton, is it?’

  I nodded back, ignoring the seat as being a distinct disadvantage. ‘And you’ll be Greenslade.’

  Then I waited. He was a hard businessman. It wouldn’t matter to him whether he produced carburettors or lace handkerchiefs, or dirty films. So he would get straight down to business. His eyes narrowed as he considered my silence. I went on waiting.

  ‘Mr Patton,’ he said at last, ‘I hear you’re investigating the death of Edwin Carter.’

  I inclined my head. ‘You have good spies.’

  ‘I can’t afford not to. Can I assume you’re making progress?’

  ‘Some.’

  He sighed at my lack of response. ‘What’s your interest in it?’

  ‘A man could’ve been wrongly sentenced.’

  ‘Your genuine interest.’

  ‘A friend has died.’

  He raised his glass, eyed it with distaste, and took a large swallow. ‘I’m assuming’, he decided, ‘that you’re either being deliberately evasive, or you’re stupid. Who’s paying you?’

  If money wasn’t involved, he didn’t understand what was going on. And it annoyed him. How could he be in control of something he didn’t understand? I smiled at the thought, and he didn’t like that, either.

  ‘What’s your interest, Mr Greenslade? I don’t see what’s in it for you…financially.’

  ‘What the hell does that matter? Whatever they’re paying, I’ll double.’ This was beginning to sound interesting. I glanced at my watch. Twice nothing was still nothing.

  ‘I didn’t want to spend much time on this,’ I said. ‘I realise you’ve come a long way. I appreciate that. But I did have the hope that you’d have some information for me. If not—well, I think I’ll be off.’

  He smiled. I’ll swear he smiled. In any event, something happened to his right eye, which could have been a tick or a twinkle. ‘You don’t know about me, do you, Mr Patton?’ He said this with a hint of surprise. ‘I make films. I make other things too, but mainly films. It’s my money in there, and I feel a certain amount of protective interest in it. I don’t like to lose any of it. In fact, I hate the thought. There’s a film production coming up, a light comedy. I’ve already sunk a lot in preliminaries, and on the rights for the original play. Of course, everybody’ll tell you that stage plays don’t transfer to the screen, but with this I’ve got ideas. A way to move it around, outdoors, get rid of the static feeling. Have you got the slightest idea what I’m saying, for God’s sake?’

  ‘I think so. You’re going to tell me you’re using one of Edwin Carter’s plays.’

  ‘Well…ten out of ten. So you can understand—I can’t afford any ugly publicity.’

  ‘I had the idea…’ I took out my pipe and looked round for an ashtray ‘…that any publicity is good publicity.’

  ‘Don’t light that thing in here,’ he said, genuine anxiety in his voice. ‘I suffer from asthma.’

  As he would, perhaps, carrying all that weight around. I put the pipe away, reluctantly.

  ‘You know nothing about publicity,’ he told me. ‘For a sportsman who plays dirty, uses foul language and worse manners, bad publicity’s good for the image. But I’m into family entertainment. Bad publicity could kill me.’

  ‘A change of style,’ I murmured.

  ‘We progress.’ He was not offended.

  But it wasn’t publicity he was afraid of. That was merely to blind me to the truth.

  ‘You know who killed Edwin, don’t you,’ I suggested.

  He said nothing.

  ‘And who killed Glenda Grace.’

  This provoked a response, not the one I hoped. ‘She’s got nothing to do with this.’

  ‘I notice you don’t deny she was killed.’

  ‘Deny it?’ He seemed to inflate, drawing himself up to an even more impressive height and width. ‘Are you accusing me?’

  ‘People do seem to get touchy when I mention her,’ I said placidly. ‘I was suggesting that you know she was killed. You wouldn’t have killed her. She was your property. She had value to you…unless, of course, she was ready for discarding.’

  He blew out breath with a rasping sound of contempt, his lips vibrating. ‘Hell, but you’re ignorant. Somebody’s been talking, and God knows what they’ve told you. That she was beautiful? Of course. That she had a doll’s face, completely inexpressive? Oh, I’m sure they said that. But she was an actress and a born comedy genius. Don’t raise your eyebrows at me
! I know what you’re thinking, and it took me a while to realise. Did Buster Keaton ever smile, ever convey anything? No. But you can’t deny he was a comic genius.’

  ‘Slapstick,’ I murmured.

  ‘And Glenda, with that face of hers, she’d only got to raise an eyebrow and it said everything. Move her chin, and you knew. I was beginning to see her as a star. And she was mine, on contract. Then somebody killed her.’

  ‘That was what I was asking. You believe she was killed.’

  ‘Drunk, they said!’ He stared at his glass. ‘Drugs, they said! Tcha! She could handle anything, that girl.’

  ‘Emotions being buried so deeply,’ I commented.

  ‘You trying to be funny?’

  ‘Not succeeding. So you argue that it couldn’t have been an accident or suicide. Somebody pushed her.’

  He stared at me, his lip curling in contempt.

  ‘Any idea who?’ I asked.

  ‘As though that matters now! It’s gone. In the past. What the hell’re you burbling about?’

  ‘Did you get anything like a threatening letter or blackmail attempt?’ I asked. ‘After her death,’ I amplified. ‘Before Edwin died.’

  ‘Now why,’ he burst out, ‘would anybody think they could blackmail me? I’d have them dealt with.’

  ‘Or sent one? Or more?’

  ‘Now you look here…’

  I looked. His face was flushed, his eyes angry, and he was not a man I’d care to tangle with.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ I conceded. ‘She was gone. A property to be discounted, and treated as a tax loss. I thought, you see,’ I told him, ‘you’d be interested in knowing who’d done it.’

  ‘And pay you for that?’ I’d restored his humour. He even managed a laugh, though not a pleasant one. ‘It’s Edwin’s death…’

  ‘That’s also gone and done with. But it affects your current financial situation, and you’re suggesting I should drop my investigations in case of bad publicity! Or whatever,’ I went on quickly, before he exploded. ‘What were you doing on that night, Mr Greenslade?’

  ‘Are you suggesting…’

  I grinned at him. ‘well, that would be bad publicity, if the producer was arrested for murder.’

  ‘Goddamn you!’

  ‘Tell me about that evening. You were here. I take it, with your physical difficulties, you weren’t rushing around in the night?’

  I’d taken it too far. His face was becoming purple. I held up my hand. If he broke into a charge I’d have difficulty in stopping him.

  ‘Very well. Sorry. But I’m asking you to confirm something. Edwin’s behaviour that evening—it wasn’t in line with what was expected. You’d come here for something else. Not a party. Business, involving money, but Edwin was obsessed with getting in more drinks.’

  I’d stretched this out a bit, giving him time to cool down. But I’d hit a nerve.

  ‘The man was insane. It meant everything to him, and he wouldn’t get down to business. Going out to top up his bar! Jesus! I told him what I’d got in my car. But would he listen—not him. I’d brought along some stuff. Well, why not? It was a bottle party, wasn’t it! So I’d brought a few bottles with me. There it was, on the rear seat…’

  ‘Don’t tell me you bought it in Lichfield,’ I said weakly.

  ‘What the hell’s Lichfield? I got it in Richmond. That’s Surrey. Are you going to listen? I told him I’d got it in my car. Told him he could have it, but oh no! He was the host, he said. Some host, walking out on us, when there was business to be discussed.’

  So I had another confirmation of the theory I’d outlined to Amelia. ‘And that was the last you saw of him?’

  ‘Alive, yes. They all ran out. Me…a man’s got his dignity. I stayed where I was. Not my affair.’

  ‘Of course it was your affair, it was a business deal fallen flat on its face.’

  He raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Was I going to gallop around, when it was already lost?’

  I took out my pipe again, and rammed it back into my pocket. ‘But now…you’re not exactly galloping, but you’ve come all the way from Richmond…on the same errand.’

  He moved restlessly, no doubt yearning for the comfort of his Rolls. ‘Not the same. The case is dead. I’d like it left that way.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll have to be leaving.’

  He thrust his hand inside his jacket, and produced a thick, white envelope. I had been wondering, from the bulge, whether he had a gun in there. This was almost as lethal. He tossed it to me.

  ‘If nobody’s paying you,’ he said, ‘perhaps a little spending money…Expenses, say. Incurred up to this moment.’ He smiled. ‘But not beyond.’

  It wasn’t fastened. I looked inside. They were £50 notes. Two bundles of twenty in each. I fetched them out and counted them, then slid them back. I licked the flap and stuck it down, this giving an impression of finality.

  ‘What would you expect for this?’ I asked.

  ‘You know who killed Edwin, don’t you?’

  I considered my words carefully before I spoke. ‘I know. I don’t fully understand, but I know.’

  ‘Sounds like a guess,’ he said, trying to bend my confidence.

  I took the ball-point pen from my top pocket and printed a name on the envelope, then I tossed it back to him. A bad toss. He had to move quickly to field it, but after all, this was money.

  ‘That’s who I think it is,’ I said. ‘If I’m correct, it would be a bribe, and I can’t afford to take bribes.’ But it would cover expenses, and leave enough over to make certain of the mill. ‘If I’m wrong, then I’ve got no other idea to explore, and I might as well go home anyway. In either event, you can keep it.’

  For a long while he stood there with the envelope in his hand, staring at the name, then he slid it into his pocket. The hand emerged, and in the same sweep fell on the phone on the working surface.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some phoning to do.’

  I nodded, and went out into the hall. He was already dialling. Business had to be pursued.

  Rosemary pounced on me. ‘Richard! You’ve been so long. We’re waiting in there.’

  I glanced at my watch, annoyed by how long I’d been.

  ‘Come on, Rosemary, you can manage without me. I’ve got to go and pick up my wife.’

  ‘But I wanted you to be there. Especially you. It’s you who’s brought it about.’

  I smiled at her. ‘I really must go. She’s all alone at the mill, and it’s getting darker every minute.’

  ‘But…’ She bit her lip, her expression bouncing from disappointment to excitement. ‘Oh, you are infuriating.’ She leaned towards me to whisper it, as though all the world hadn’t already guessed. ‘We’re going to get married, Duncan and me.’

  I kissed her on the cheek. ‘And about time, too. Now, I must be off…’

  ‘No…wait.’ Her fingers clawed at my arm. ‘There was something else. I’ve promised myself I’d tell you, but after the announcement. Something very important.’

  It took me back to the Christmases of my childhood, when I’d had to express astonished delight at each present, when I’d already raided the cupboard under the stairs, and knew. I knew now what she was going to tell me, and it didn’t matter anymore. ‘I wonder what that could be.’

  ‘After the announcement. I promise.’

  ‘Tell me now.’ My nerves were stretching at this extended word game.

  She shook her head, lips firmly pouted. The hair was now restrained by another rubber band. Yellow.

  ‘All right,’ I said, my voice rising. ‘Phone me. I’ll be at the hotel.’

  ‘No. In person. Face to face.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Then I calmed. ‘We’re face to face now. Or come to the hotel. But now…I’ve got to pick Amelia up at the mill.’

  She nodded. Mischief was in her eyes. But I saw only that dark bulk of mill under the black skies, and had difficulty in managing a smile as I turned away.

 
; I stood in the porch. The sky was even more overcast, and I had to wait for a few moments for my eyes to adapt. The porch light wasn’t on; it was officially still daylight. The rain roared on the roofs of the cars outside. In the Rolls, the chauffeur had the light on and was reading a paperback. I put down my head to make a dash for it, and two shapes moved in on me, one each side.

  They didn’t actually put a finger on me, but I sensed that their hands were ready. I saw the outlines of peaked caps, the shapes of shoulder straps.

  ‘Mr Patton?’ asked a calm voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Police, sir. I’d like you to come along with us. The Chief Inspector wants a word.’

  16

  I didn’t have to ask the name of the Chief Inspector. ‘Another time,’ I said.

  ‘Now, sir. Please.’

  ‘Look, Constable…’

  ‘Sergeant, sir.’

  ‘Look, Sergeant, I’ve got urgent business. Whatever Mr Grayson has to say, it can wait.’

  ‘He didn’t put it like that. Not exactly.’

  ‘I don’t care how he bloody well put it. I’m driving away from here. And now. You can follow me if you like.’

  Now that my eyes were used to it, I could see his face in the shadows, not to recognise an expression, but to observe that it was a round face, a country face. He would obey instructions. To the very word.

  ‘My instructions are, sir, that if you offer any resistance I’m to charge you, and give you an official warning.’

  ‘Charge me!’ I controlled my temper. ‘What charge?’

  ‘Obstructing a police officer in his enquiries.’

  You have to be calm in these circumstances, not say or do anything to make the situation worse. There could be no such valid charge, but, once they’d made it, I could be held for twenty-four hours. Which would obstruct me in my enquiries! I couldn’t afford twenty-four hours, not even twenty-four minutes.

  For a moment I considered making a break for it. A backwards elbow in one direction, a quick turn and a straight right in the other…But he read my mind.

  ‘I have a man sitting in your car, sir.’

  I had a quick mental image of Amelia waiting in the mill, and the blood ran hot behind my eyes. But then I remembered: Davies was there.