It was no use arguing with her. Whenever he tried to make her understand his side of things, she just shouted abuse and left the room. So, indeed, he was probably better off without her. Still, it made him sad. He remembered the dictum that every farewell is a minor version of death.
After his piano lesson, Andrew was walking past a news-stand. The headlines of the Eastbourne Herald caught his eye: “Beachy Head Body Found.” He knew that the sheer drop of the chalk cliffs at Beachy Head were not only a local landscape attraction but also a favourite spot for suicidal persons.
Andrew was still thinking of the sad reputation of the beauty spot in the local landscape when he entered the Dolphin Inn. Although it was only five o’clock in the afternoon, he felt he badly needed a drink. There were only few people in the pub at this time of the day. He got his pint and sat down in one of the easy-chairs. He opened the paper and began to read the report about the body the police had found at the base of the chalk cliff. As it was reported, it was the body of a very old man.
About half an hour later, David rushed in. He saw Andrew sitting there, so he got his own pint and sat down opposite his friend.
“You look terrible,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.
“You can say that again. I feel terrible.”
“Why is that?”
“Rebecca and I have split up.”
David was silent for a while; then he said, “I’m afraid, I could see this coming. Definitely after she’d slapped you in public the other day, but really, I could see it coming before that. She often criticized and humiliated you in front of other people, and she wasn’t all that easy to get along with either. Marie-Claire tried to make friends with her, but all she got back from her was ungrounded criticism and anti-intellectual slogans, stupid nationalistic phrases about the ethnic uniqueness of the British people and such crap.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“Would you warn me off Marie-Claire if you found a fault in her?”
“Probably not. You’re right. I was so much in love with Rebecca, I must have lost my clear sense of judgement.”
“Literature is full of men who suffer from the same problem. When you fall in love you switch off your brain. Obviously, Rebecca must have had something that made you fall in love with her.”
“I can’t tell you what it was exactly. When I met her I just couldn’t escape her special charm. She had this, well this ... I don’t know what it was. The French would say she had a certain je ne sais quoi. I just fell for her.”
“Oh yes,” David switched into his professional mode. “The phrase goes back to Cicero. He called it nescio quid. It’s used for processes in our mind that we find inexplicable, such as falling in love. It literally means, ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me’. The phenomenon is as old as humanity.”
“That’s it. I can’t tell you what I found so fascinating in her or about her. Of course, she was a very beautiful woman, but...”
“Sorry, my friend. She wasn’t beautiful, she was pretty.”
“What’s the difference? I’d like to know.”
“A woman may be pretty to look at, you know, her face, her figure, the sort of standard female beauty on the surface, the thing we would call handsome in a man. But beauty is a different category, a superior dimension. A person is beautiful from the inside. No human being can be beautiful without having a positive and truly philanthropic outlook on the world at large.”
“Oh, come on, old man. That’s getting a bit too thick. Let’s have another pint, shall we?” Andrew took their empty glasses and stepped over to the bar.
* * *
When Andrew answered his mobile phone in the evening, he saw David’s name on the display. He wondered what his friend might have to add to their deep discussion about love, about female beauty and about women’s characters earlier on at the pub.
“Listen, Andrew,” David began. Andrew immediately knew that this was serious because his friend only rarely called him by his name. Usually it was just “old chap” or “old man”, but “Andrew” only when things were really serious. No laughing matter at all.
“What is it, tell me.”
“The police spoke to me. They came to my home. They asked me all sorts of questions about you and your family, your background, and what you’d been up to in the last few days. When I asked them why they were asking those questions they didn’t tell me. Then they wanted me to tell them what you’d told me about that old German codger, you know, that Löffel guy. I couldn’t give them a great deal, but I told them the old fellow had obviously pestered you and your family about your granddad, something to do with what had happened during the last war, not anything recent.”
“What could all that be about? What do you think?”
“I don’t know. But I’m sure they’ll be coming to interrogate you, too. I just wanted to warn you. Is there anything I should know?”
“Of course not. There’s nothing to be of any concern for the police, I can assure you.”
“All right, my friend,” David sighed. “That’s okay, then. But be careful with that Löffel guy. There must be something fishy about him if the police are on to him.”
The two friends drifted into small-talk and soon rang off.
It was next morning, before Andrew was ready to leave his home, when the police called at his door. They were friendly but determined. They stepped inside and sat down at the dining table with him. One of them was in plain clothes, while the other one was in his uniform.
“My name is Chief Inspector Armstrong,” the older police officer began, “and this is Sergeant Gillespie.”
Despite the pre-warning that he’d had from David the previous evening, Andrew found himself getting nervous. The police were so serious. But what could they be wanting from him?
“Do you, or did you, know a man called Wolfgang Loeffel? A German national of advanced age?”
“Well, I didn’t know him well, but my mother knew him a bit better. Why? What about him?”
“We ask the questions here, Mr White. Can you tell us what you were doing on Tuesday afternoon and evening?”
“I was having a quarrel with my girlfriend, or rather my ex-girlfriend. We had a serious disagreement, and we split up. Then I went to the pub for a drink. I don’t remember much about the rest of the evening.”
The inspector exchanged meaningful glances with the sergeant.
“Is it true that you announced your intention to kill Mr Loeffel?”
Andrew gulped. “I don’t know, one says things like that, but one doesn’t mean them really.”
“We have witnesses who are ready to testify that you actually proclaimed your intention to murder Mr Loeffel.”
“Why should anyone believe such a thing?” Andrew said. “Why are you asking me these things anyway?”
“Well, Mr White. We are here to inform you that the dead body of Mr Wolfgang Loeffel was found at the bottom of Beachy Head on Wednesday morning, and we are treating his death as suspicious. We would like you to accompany us to the police station for a taped interview.”
Andrew asked if he could inform his family, a friend or a lawyer. Chief Inspector Armstrong told him he was under caution, and he could have a solicitor or a personal friend present at the interview. Andrew called David’s mobile phone and asked him to send a solicitor to the police station, which his friend agreed to do.
In the interrogation room at the police station, Chief Inspector Armstrong announced: “Mr White, let me explain the situation first. As I pointed out to you when we invited you to accompany us here, you are under caution. This means, you are not under arrest, you are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but if you fail to mention something which you will later rely on in court it may harm your defence.”
; The solicitor that David had sent was sitting at the same table. His name was James Brentwood. He just nodded his head while the inspector cautioned the suspect.
During the following hour, the inspector interrogated Andrew, who was just puzzled over what the police obviously suspected. Since he had shouted at the pub how furious he was about Löffel’s blackmail of his family, he gradually realized that his position was a very serious one indeed. They asked him if they could come round to his flat and take away his computer. He said no, he didn’t do anything. At the end of the interview, he was exhausted. He couldn’t even remember what answers he’d given the inspector, and he looked at his solicitor, begging for some support. Mr Brentwood told him not to worry at this stage. He arranged to have a private interview with him on the following day, when they could go over the whole case, just the two of them. It was doubtful that the police would still treat him as a suspect once he’d told them Andrew’s version after their personal interview. First, though, Andrew was told to go home and relax. Then Mr Brentwood would come round to his flat with his own questions. He still had lots of questions to ask. That was to be expected. How else could he defend his client? So, Andrew left the police station with a heavy mind.
Back at his flat, he first called his mother. When he told her what had happened, she was speechless. After she had recovered, she admitted that she was glad Löffel was dead, but she was shocked by the fact that the police suspected Andrew.
“They will probably interrogate you, too,” he warned her. “After all, it was you that Löffel blackmailed.”
The next person he called was David, of course. He thanked him for producing the lawyer so quickly, and he told him what had happened at the police interview.
“Of course, they have to suspect you, the way things are. What’s important for you, though, is to produce a good alibi that will prove your innocence. Can’t you remember anything about the afternoon and evening in question? I mean something that can be proved. You know, by witnesses or by hard, irrefutable evidence.”
“I’ll try to remember,” Andrew murmured.
Andrew had been lying stretched out on his sofa-bed in the lounge, trying to relax and trying to remember at the same time, when the doorbell rang. Three men showed him their police badges and asked to be let in.
“Well, Mr White. Since you refused to give us your voluntary agreement we had to apply to the magistrate for a search warrant.”
They showed him a piece of paper which appeared to be a search warrant and told him they wanted to search his premises and take anything with them which could throw any light on the case, such as letters, mobile phones or computers. They slouched around his flat for about half an hour, took his computer and some of his papers, then they left.
Three hours later, the police called at his office and asked him to accompany him as discreetly as possible. At the police station, they informed him that the investigating officer suspected that an offence had been committed. He was therefore under arrest.
In his small cell at the police station, Andrew had time to review his situation. He couldn’t think of a way to defend himself. He couldn’t remember what he’d been doing on Tuesday evening after he’d had those few drinks at the pub. So, he would probably have to rely on Mr Brentwood.
A man in a grey suit with a narrow green necktie entered, accompanied by a sergeant, and asked him to come to the interview room again.
“My name is Captain Charlton, I am the CID officer responsible for this case.”
“I beg your pardon,” Andrew said. “What is CID?”
“It’s the Central Investigation Department. I’m from Lewes.”
“And your job is to get me convicted, is it?”
“Please, Mr White, don’t take this too personally. My duty is to investigate the case of Mr Loeffel’s violent decease in order to determine whether or not a criminal act was committed. As I have already informed your legal counsel, Mr Brentwood, we have the written declaration signed by the custody sergeant, to the effect that he has satisfied himself that the arrest is lawful in your case.”
Andrew gulped.
Mr Brentwood joined them at this moment and sat down at the same table. For the next two hours, the CID officer asked him question after question. The questions concerned the entire history of the victim and Andrew’s connection with him. Obviously, they wanted to find out any evidence.
When he was taken back to his cell, Mr Brentwood accompanied him. In the cell, they went over the whole case again.
“The CID officer now has to determine whether or not you should be charged,” Mr Brentwood explained. “But I will have a word with him first. He has to consider what I have to tell him.”
“And what are you going to tell him?”
“Well, that’s obvious. All he has is a suspicion based on the flimsy evidence of a few pub-patrons who heard you announce your annoyance over Mr Loeffel, your alcohol-induced wish to have him dead, evidence given by people who were hardly sober themselves at the time. They have absolutely no other evidence against you. The body only shows injuries caused by the fall from the cliff, no signs of any other injuries which could have been caused by a personal attacker, no gunshot-wounds or such things. Also, there are no eye-witnesses. The poor man must have fallen to his death in the middle of the night. There weren’t any chaplains on duty at the time. You know they normally patrol the cliff edge during the day, watching any possibly suicidal individuals that they find too near the edge.”
“What happens if you can’t convince the CID officer?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll convince him.” Mr Brentwood put his hand on Andrew’s wrist, a soothing gesture.
Andrew looked in his eyes. “But what if you can’t?”
“Then you will be charged with murder and you will be remanded in custody at Lewes Prison unless bail will be granted. As a suspect under charge, your name will be published.”
“And what then?”
“After all the evidence has been collected, you will be put before a magistrate in Eastbourne. The magistrate may then remit the case to the Crown Court. This means that the local police will have to submit the file of the case to the CPS. That’s the Crown Prosecution Service. If the CPS is confident to have a chance of more than fifty percent for a conviction, the Crown Court will have to set up a jury, and the case will come to trial.”
They were silent for a few minutes. Then Mr Brentwood patted him on the back and stood up. “As I said, all that is highly unlikely.”
The solicitor said good-bye and left Andrew alone in his cell.
So, he had more time to think.
Twenty-Six
Since David was going through a very busy period, he didn’t have much time to lose himself in worrying thoughts about poor Andrew. This doesn’t mean he ignored or forgot his friend’s plight, but he excused himself with the argument that there wasn’t very much that he could do to help him.
When walking through Cavendish Place on a sunny morning about four or five days after Andrew’s arrest, he ran into his friend’s sister, he didn’t quite know what to say.
“Oh, my dear David,” Lisa cried, “you are his best friend. What in the world can we do to help him?”
“Hello, Lisa, good to see you.”
“Isn’t it terrible? What a shame! What can we do?” Lisa could hardly contain herself. Her emotional personality had a field day. David decided to stop her tearful outrage before it got out of hand. He placed his hands on her wrist and looked her in the eyes.
“Please, Lisa,” he said in a comforting voice full of compassion but firm at the same time.
“You are such a strong man. I admire your mature nature. What a piece of good luck for my poor brother to have such a reliable friend with such a strong character.”
“Thanks for your confidence, but there’s not much
I can do. We have to trust his lawyer. As far as I know they haven’t really got any evidence against him, except his motive. You know, the blackmail. So they’ll have to release him sooner or later.”
“Oh, David!” she cried. “You mean you don’t know?”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve found a witness. You remember they called for witnesses in the paper the day before yesterday, and there’s someone who has actually seen him. He came forward yesterday. That’s what the lawyer said.”
“Seen Andrew push the guy over the cliff edge?”
“I don’t know any details, but isn’t it terrible?” She began to sob again.
“There, there,” David murmured, putting his arm around her shoulders and patting her on her back. “I’m sure everything will be cleared up in time.”
When she got her sobs under control she looked at him with tearful eyes. “But isn’t it terrible?”
“Yes, it is terrible, but there will be better times ahead. Just be patient.”
“How can you be so confident? Okay, let’s say Andrew might get out of this. But you’ve got to admit we still live in terrible times. You never know when you could become the victim of a terrorist attack. It’s all those terrible events in the Middle East and the refugees, all the terrorists coming into our country and then...”
“My dear Lisa,” David tried to remain calm. “The statistical probability of becoming the victim of a terrorist attack in Europe is smaller than being hit by a meteorite. There are far more serious dangers to a safe and peaceful future in Europe than terrorism. But terrorism lends itself to splashy news headlines and - more spectacularly - to emotional brainwashing by populist politicians. Terrorism is awful, but it is really a minor problem of our times, believe me.”
White Lies Page 39
