by Geoff Palmer
'Dropped. Interesting word. Has implications, that. All sorts of implications.'
'What are you two on about?'
'Harold Purvis is what we're on about, sir. Harold Purvis, lay preacher, late of this building. The aforementioned gentleman was found reclining on the pavement after apparently stumbling over the parapet between the eleventh and twelfth floors.'
'How sad.'
'Sadder still, sir, is the fact that we suspect his flight was power-assisted.'
'Pushed?'
'No, dropped, as Roger said. There are marks, certain marks upon the body that suggest the gentleman possessed his angel wings before his corpse took flight. To put it bluntly, he was dead before he hit the deck. The perpetrator biffed the body thinking the impact would disguise his deed, but as we said ...'
'... it's surprising what the human body can take.'
I sip my tea and burn my tongue; it's too hot without the milk.
'And what has this to do with me?' I ask through scalded tongue.
The older man clicks his fingers at the younger one, who deposits a notebook in the outstretched palm. He takes it back and reads: "Bloody fucking drunken bastard. Bugger off and bloody kill yourself." Unquote.'
'Who ... ?'
'You.'
'Me?'
'When did I say that?'
'About twenty-two chapters ago.'
'I thought the statute of limitations was twenty chapters?'
'I don't know anything about statues, sir. Are they your words or not? I could go on ...
'No need, I said it, I confess. You've got your man.'
'You mean ... ?'
'I swore at Harry Purvis. I hope the courts are kind.'
He hands back the notebook.
'It's not the swearing we're concerned about.'
'Well, bugger off then.'
'Note that Roger. "Uncooperative."' Roger scribbles in the notebook. 'No, what we're interested in sir is why?'
'Aren't we all, eh? Why? Why us? Why this? Why here and now? It's very metaphysical.'
'Look, Mr Dimbey, I'm a simple chap. I don't need all that philosophical tosh. I do my job, lead my life, raise my kids and believe that in the closing chapters or maybe in the great hereafter, all will be revealed. Who really shot JFK, why the other queue always moves faster, where you can get a good old-fashioned haircut without all that washing and blow-waving nonsense, and what the ultimate meaning of life is. For now, the only question that concerns me is why you were swearing at Mr Purvis.'
'I'd have thought that was obvious.'
'We have a witness to your words, sir, but not your motivation.'
'It's simple. He was in my way.'
'And you swore and kicked him because of that.'
'I didn't kick him. I stepped on his foot.'
'Deliberately?'
'Sort of.'
'Got that, Roger?' Roger nods and scribbles some more. 'And why did you deliberately assault Mr Purvis?'
'It wasn't an assault.'
'You just admitted to it.'
'You're putting words in my mouth.'
'Only in the absence of words of your own.'
'Look, you've seen what the lift's like in this building. It almost never gets past the ninth floor. That means I have to carry myself and my weekly shopping up four flights of stairs. That's bad enough without having some drunken bum sprawled all over one of the landings, throwing up and rolling empty bottles in your path. I asked him to move a couple of times but he was too drunk to respond. He just sat there singing. I inched around him, saw his foot in the way and accidentally trod on it.'
'Accidentally?'
'Accidentally on purpose. To teach him a lesson. If he wanted to get plastered out of his skull, why didn't he do it in the comfort of his own hovel?'
'Maybe he was a social drinker.'
'The fact is he used come back wrecked from his religious revivals and flake out halfway up the stairwell. He was a menace. To himself and everyone else.'
'Defenestration's an excessive cure, though, don't you think?'
'Only just.'
'And why the suggestion of suicide? "Bugger off and bloody kill yourself." A somewhat unusual oath, wouldn't you say?'
'He was a drunken bum. My own father was heading that way when he died. I see now that my father had died long before his accident, inside I mean. He was like Purvis, desperate to escape. He too escaped through the bottle.'
'And you don't approve.'
'No, not the bottle. Escapes all right, but not that way. I've seen what it does to families.'
'Which ways are okay then?'
'Books, films, TV to some extent, imagination, harmless fantasy ...'
'Drugs?'
'No thanks.'
'Well, if you know anyone that does ...'
'And what about a little mindless violence, Mr Doombey? Beat up a drunk and launch him into space. Relieve the stresses and strains of a hard afternoon at the supermarket.'
'What, with four bags of shopping in my hands?'
'And why not?'
'I'd be too knackered for a start. Look, why do you start every sentence with an "and"?'
'And why would you want to know that? (Bugger!) Not thinking of impersonating a police officer are you?'
'I couldn't afford the lobotomy.'
'So you didn't kill Harry Purvis?'
'No. Not really.'
'Pardon?'
'I s'pose that in a sense I did kill him.'
'Say that again.'
'Well, I created him, didn't I? An unpleasant, smelly, malaprop of a man, but pretty harmless nonetheless. And now we find he's dead. Died violently too, all on the whim of his inventor.'
'Well, we can't do you for that.'
'Of course you can't.'
'And there's quite a few we'd go for first if we could. Christie for one.'
'John Reginald?'
'Agatha. Not even Poirot could nail her.'
'Still, there's one thing about it.'
'What's that?'
'A murder investigation has to be more interesting than arresting people for unpaid fines.'
'Yes, that's true. That's very true. Hear that, Roger?' The younger one grunts, still scribbling in his notebook. 'Haven't you finished yet?'
'Nearly,' he replies. 'There,' ending in a flourish. He passes it back to the inspector, who holds it up and looks from it to me.
'Yes. Yes, a good likeness. This lad's missed his vocation.'
'No, I had two weeks off in March.'
He stands up. 'Well, I think that's all. Sergeant?'
'Sir.'
'Thank you for your help Mr Dambey,' he continues. 'A nice juicy murder to sink our teeth into, eh Roger? Do pardon the expression.' He adds, sotto voce, 'No hints, I s'pose?'
'Sorry.'
'Just thought I'd ask.'
They set their cups down in the kitchen sink as they depart. At the door the inspector turns as they always do in police shows when they've had damning evidence all the time and have just been stringing the suspect along. He says, 'Just one more thing before we go, sir. Would you like to buy a raffle ticket?'
'For the policeman's ball,' chimes the other.
'You thinking of having it stitched back on then?'
'Very droll, sir.'
I part with five dollars and scribble my name on the stub.
'See you again,' calls Roger with a friendly wave.
'Not likely,' I reply, 'I've read the plot.'
• • •
That's better. I'm ready now. I'm ready for anything.
Thursday, May 21
When I got home the place was swarming with police and for one crazy second I was tempted to just keep walking past and pretend I didn't know the place. One of them stopped me at the gate and I explained that I lived round the back. He took down my particulars and let me through.
The door to the front two flats was open and I could see the outline of people silhouetted by bright lights inside Donny a
nd Julie's place. There was nothing else to see apart from some yellow tape cordoning off part of the garden and a few extra cars in the street. I asked the one at the gate what was going on but he merely motioned me through. I was just in time because a station-wagon emblazoned with a TV network logo pulled up and the chatty policeman went over to talk to them.
Round the back Mr and Mrs Hamidullah were part of a nervous semi-circle of neighbours gathered at the back fence. They looked at me expectantly as I walked down the drive as if I might have more information. Only their children seemed unaffected, playing quietly in the backyard.
'What's happened?' I asked.
'Something bad,' Mr Hamidullah said shaking his head.
'It will be that one with the motorcycle.' It's the longest sentence I've ever heard from Mrs H. It was accompanied by a chorus of nods from the neighbours.
'Some TV people have arrived,' I volunteered, pointing up the drive to a cameraman shouldering his equipment.
'Oh dear, we must go,' said Mr H. 'Quick, inside, children.'
Most of the others scattered too, though I noticed one or two of them start preening themselves and tidying their hair. I went with the majority.
There was nothing to do but wait. They'd get round to me sooner or later. I was out of milk but didn't fancy running the gauntlet if there were TV crews about. There was nothing about it on the news on any of the channels, but it kept me occupied switching back and forth. I even tried the radio but to no avail. The knock finally came just after eight o'clock. There were two of them.
'Mr Spaldy, is it?' said the first, consulting his notebook.
'Spalding,' I corrected.
'I beg your pardon. Detective Inspector Billington, Sergeant Rogers.' They both held up their IDs. 'We'd like a word about this business round the front if that's convenient.'
'You better come in,' I said.
'You're certainly tucked away round here, Mr Spalding,' he said as I ushered them through the kitchen. 'I don't think we'd have noticed this place if you hadn't spoken to the constable on the gate.'
'No, that's why I like it,' I said. 'What's going on?'
I motioned them to the sofa and took the armchair for myself.
'Were investigating a … er ... suspicious death in the front flat. Flat "a", is it?' The sergeant nodded. 'We'd just like to ask you a few questions.'
'Is it the girl?' I asked. He nodded. 'Oh shit.'
'What made you think it was the girl?'
'Well, it's him, isn't it. The boyfriend. He's a bit rough.'
'Rough?'
'I think he beats her up and stuff. Well, I know he does. You can hear them at it from the street, even down here sometimes.'
'Have you seen evidence of beatings, Mr Spalding?'
'I've seen him do it.'
In response to his raised eyebrows I told him about the foot-stomping incident I'd witnessed in the carport.
'You didn't go to her aid, then?'
'I did, but he went for me. I just tried to help her up and came at me like a lunatic. The man's a nutcase.'
'He went for you?'
'Yeah. I was helping her up and he just shoved me in the back. I turned round and he grabbed me by the throat and started waving his fist in my face, screaming obscenities and practically foaming at the mouth. Like I'd been the one who'd hurt her in the first place.'
'Grabbed you by the throat,' he repeated carefully. The sergeant was scribbling in his notebook. 'How, exactly?'
'Sorry?'
'Can you remember the way he grabbed you? Was it from the front pushing back or ...'
'No, from the side. He had his thumb against my windpipe.' I demonstrated.
The two of them exchanged glances.
'And then what happened?'
'Well, she leapt up and grabbed his arm and that kind of broke the spell. He pushed her away and went back to working on his motorbike and I came inside.'
He nodded.
It was so quiet you could hear the tap dripping in the bathroom.
'When did this incident occur?'
'About a month ago.'
'And you didn't think of making a complaint?'
'What, you mean to you lot? Yes, I did initially. But then I thought about it and realised it wouldn't do any good. There weren't any witnesses apart from Julie and I'm sure she'd have said whatever he wanted her to say or he'd take it out on her later.'
'Do you think she was scared of him?'
'Well, I don't think "scared" is quite the right word. She has—had—a sort of rosy view of him. I ran into her in the dairy a week or two later and she apologised for him and said that people didn't understand him, that he was really quite nice and gentle underneath.'
'And what did you think of that?'
'I thought she was living in a dream world.'
'Did you see any other evidence of physical abuse? Bruises, cuts, black eyes?'
I thought of the bruise on her thigh. I shook my head. 'No.'
'And when did you last see them, Mr Spalding?'
I heard the tap drip again. The sergeant looked up from his scribbling.
'That would have to be last Friday evening.'
'Both of them?'
'Yeah.'
'Together?'
'No',
I told him about helping her with the fridge and then seeing Donny later as I walked into town.
'Can you remember what sort of state was the flat in? Was it tidy or were they a bit messy?'
'Oh no, very tidy. I was surprised, after seeing him—you know—and hearing all the rows and the banging and crashing. It was surprisingly neat. That was her, I expect. There were like fresh flowers and stuff around the place and everything was spick and span so it looked really odd with the fridge just keeled over in the middle of it. Incongruous, you know?'
'And you've not seen the boyfriend since?'
'Not since Friday.'
'Are you sure it was him you heard on Friday night?'
'When I got home from the pub? Well, it sounded like him. And there was a motorbike in the carport.' I shrugged.
'It's not been there since?'
No'.
'Not over the weekend?'
'Not that I noticed.'
The dripping seemed louder as the sergeant rifled back through his notes.
'When did it happen? The ... I mean Julie?' I ventured.
'There'll be a post mortem of course, but it appears that death occurred sometime between Saturday afternoon and the early hours of Sunday morning.'
I nodded.
'Anything else, John?'
The sergeant looked up from his notes and shook his head. 'Don't think so sir.'
'Well, thank you, Mr Spalding. We'll be in touch if we need anything else.'
I showed them to the door. As they reached it, and I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he turned and said, 'Just one more thing. I take it we don't have your fingerprints on file?'
I shook my head.
'I'll have someone call round. We'll need to eliminate you from our enquiries.' He looked at his watch. 'But maybe not tonight.'
'Inspector,' I said. 'What happened to her?'
'Too early to say for sure Mr Spalding. But it rather looks like she's been strangled.'
Lecture
I don't know what to believe any more. Once I did and things were easy, but now I don't know if what I believe is simply something that's been planted by an ad agency, biased media coverage or a clever marketing campaign. I mean, you start to get a bit paranoid. You pick up a tube of toothpaste in the supermarket and suddenly think, 'Why did I pick that one out of all the other brands? Have the ads got to me, or the packaging, or the clever display?' Then you start to search around for different brands, ones on the bottom shelf, ones you've never heard of or more expensive ones just to spite them. Ha, you think as you trundle away. Ha! You didn't get me that time. I'm not your average mindless consumer. Then a new thought occurs and you stop and look at what you've chosen. It's
not made by the same company, is it? Or one of their subsidiaries? How can you tell? Are they putting the same stuff in different packages for people like you who deliberately don't buy the one that's heavily advertised? It's what I would do in their position.
• • •
I used to be scrupulously honest when they stopped me in the street or telephoned me to do a survey: my marital status, my financial position, my hopes and dreams, my favourite detergent. Then I heard about an Australian politician who ran his own survey company. It existed only to survey his electorate. He could tell down to household level who supported him, what they did, how much they earned, what issues they were concerned about, everything. Then he could target specific areas, even specific streets. This lot are concerned about their benefits — send them the flyer saying the rich must pay more. These ones are concerned about taxes — promise them a flat-rate system. Here's a group of the great undecided — time for a personal visit and a bit of baby kissing...
After that I refused to take part. They'd phone up with their introductory waffle and I'd turn the tables on them, demand to know who they were and who they were working for, what information they already had on me, what they were going to do with the results of this survey and who would have access to it. But they don't like it when they have to reveal themselves. It doesn't work. They shake you off and just call up someone who will talk to them and us refuseniks don't even get a mention. 'Out of fifteen hundred respondents, forty-five percent said that ...' Yeah, but what about the ten thousand who told you to piss off?
So now I lie. If you're a sixty-year-old spinster living on a pension, tell them you're a twenty-year-old hooker with a boyfriend in jail for GBH. If you're unemployed, say you're a company director. If you're a brain surgeon, say you're a glue-sniffer. Be creative. It's not illegal, and it's fun. Bugger up their demographics and their socio-economic groupings and their ethnographic profiles. Imagine the meetings when they present their findings; 'Fifty-three percent of respondents — the majority of whom are part-time mud-wrestlers — complained there's not enough croquet on television ...'
• • •
The truth is I don't know what to believe any more, and I don't care. I rather enjoy adding to the confusion.
• • •
What is a novel but disinformation directed towards a managed conclusion? I can make your blood boil or your tears start, I can make you laugh and mourn, and you are a willing participant in it all. You accept what you're told because that's the way you are, the way we are. It's our strength and our greatest weakness because if you hear only one side of the story you can see only one part of the solution. You become the crowd baying for blood and vengeance, the mindless mob lynching those that disagree, the mute majority nodding knowingly as cattle-wagons packed with people rumble past ...