by James Barlow
Olwen had made a mistake admitting that, and she knew it. Her knees trembled. ‘It’s at home,’ she said.
‘It’s here,’ I said; ‘same as that picture you’ve just taken.’
‘You can’t frighten me,’ she said.
She was running to where she’d dropped her handbag. The camera lay near. I had no alternative now but to bring thought into reality. She had been the victim all along; it was her part in the game, and it was how the game must end. Olwen caught the bag and camera and would have run onwards, screaming revenge, but her foot caught on a tuft of grass and she fell on to her face. No scratches, I thought; she can’t scratch in that position. They always look for a man with scratches on his face.
I was on top of her and, knowing the inevitable, she struggled madly. Like all of the others, she pleaded at the end. I’d had no wish to harm her twenty minutes before, but the mind, dealing with the permutation of possibilities, found only one solution. It saw the whole sequence of events: those anonymous meetings; the lack of witnesses; I’d never met her friends or her employers or her relations; here at hand was the only written evidence that could have damned me; the false name … It required physical courage to kill, but I have that. It required a kind of moral courage, too, even when, like myself, you’ve abandoned the hereditary law, order and religion. In a way it had all ended rather beautifully. She would never grow old or ugly. We would never become tired of each other in the frustration of marriage. We would never be ordinary. She would never become fat, or thin, or be in a road accident, or have cancer, or see me grown old … The good die young, and in a way they’re lucky.
When I released my grip, her body fell limply, grotesquely, almost suggestively, but I knew that this abandonment belonged to death. I’d seen the queer, crumpled attitude of the dead before and there was no mistaking it.
Then I became conscious of the tremendous silence. It was almost a physical presence weighing down on me. I felt that we had been shouting for the whole world to hear, although my reason told me that the sound would not have carried beyond the surrounding bushes. There was nobody within half a mile, I knew, and yet eyes seemed to stare out of every bush. I knew the urgent need to run. But there were things to do first, and if I did them I would escape. This was the real battle; not Kiel or Hanover, but the very real, personal, dead Olwen; and having won, I had to survive.
I looked around and was surprised. We had not fought, but it was like a battlefield. Things were scattered about for twenty yards. I searched through the handbag, found the letter I had written to Olwen, and stuffed it into my pocket. There was another letter there and a postcard. They seemed harmless. The letter was from her parents and they seemed anxious. Surely that might indicate that she wasn’t writing because she had something to be ashamed of. In view of what they would establish medically, it might indicate she had been a whore. The police don’t worry about whores much. I left the letter in her handbag. At last I resisted the terror of her dead body. I looked at it and it was just a dead body. I was relieved by I don’t know what. I looked at the twisted body and hips, at the legs which would dance no more, covered by the stockings I had given her to arouse my own desire, and for a moment knew regret. I had gone on for too long, that was the trouble; the thought of her auburn hair and innocent face; the ecstasy of seducing that reluctant body time after time had brought me back months after the initial satisfaction. That was when I should have left her alone; but no, I had to win the same battle over and over again. I wiped the silver of the handbag after closing it, and threw the bag near the body. They mustn’t attach importance to it. They must presume that she had been picked up, and while resisting, killed, or attacked by a madman …
The urge to depart was terrifying. It handicapped all thought. The thing to do, I decided, was to climb a tree and get an idea of the layout, see if anyone was near, and if not, clear out. I climbed a small tree and, although it was not as high as others, from a branch I could see the spires of Almond Vale. They seemed damnably close, but on the other hand there was nobody along the river path. A mile off, on the other bank, there seemed to be a cricket match being played by schoolboys; even from that distance I thought I could hear the thin, reedy voices. On this bank there was nobody. I did not want to return the same way nevertheless, and I could see that if I went another way, ignoring the public footpaths altogether, I would reach a field and then the main road. In this way I could avoid the boatman, people who might have noticed Olwen’s hair, and children. Children especially, I thought. The way would take me three times as long to reach my car, but it was safer. I would never come to this bloody town again. Nor the Dragon, I thought. Nor anywhere near her lodgings. Sales would not be affected much. I covered the whole suburb on a Tuesday morning; it was how I had met her each Tuesday afternoon. I could even do some of my work by post and telephone. Better, I decided, to keep out of the way for a long time. A year at least; I’ll mark a calendar.
I had walked five hundred yards when with a great slam of fright, which set my heart thudding and started a violent headache, I remembered the camera. She had taken a picture of me! It was the one thing I had forgotten, and the most fatal. What a gift for the Middleshire Police! I was sweating, justifiably, with nerves, but had to go back. In a panic, I could not at first find the spot. When I did it was quite a surprise to find the scene exactly the same: the auburn hair and the lines down the uncovered legs. I ripped the back off the camera, wiped it, and threw it into the sunlight in my fear. The sun would soon finish that off …
The headache was insidious and the strain beginning to tell. I was very tired and panted as I walked and occasionally trotted away. As far as possible I kept near to trees, ready to hide if necessary. But no one was about and I reached the main road safely half a mile out of the town. A few cars passed, but I knew they would not notice me; they would tear straight through Almond Vale; it was beneath their notice …
My head hurt so badly that I longed to relieve it before I drove away. As I neared the town I came to small cottages and then a rather grubby café. Although it was empty, I would have passed it had I not seen a sign: ‘Aspirins’. A bell jangled as I entered. Inside, there were a few tables and chairs, a tea urn and bottles of sweets. A chalked notice bespoke of meat pies, bacon sandwiches and other edibles; the thought of them made me queasy. On a wall, as if to mock me, was an advertisement for cigarettes; an auburn-haired girl whose body seemed swathed in tightly-fitting coloured gauze. At any other time it would have promoted desire, but now it only reminded me of danger.
The waitress who attended to me might also, on another day and in another place, have aroused concupiscence. She had large breasts and swayed wide hips as she walked.
‘Cup of tea, please,’ I said.
‘Nice day,’ the waitress said.
‘Lovely,’ I said bitterly.
‘On holiday?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Just passing through.’
‘A pity,’ she said boldly.
I made no comment until she said, ‘Twopence halfpenny please.’
‘Got any aspirins?’
‘How many?’
‘A small packet.’
‘Got a hangover?’
I smiled feebly. ‘Yes; that’s it.’
‘I know just how you feel. Shilling, please.’
I paid her and sat down with my back to concupiscence. The waitress hovered near, but I decided not to pay my usual witty attentions. I took three of the aspirins with my tea and within five minutes was on the pavement again.
The car was still there. It started at once and I drove slowly and unnoticeably through the town in the wrong direction. If anyone does remember a red sports car at about 4 pm and its direction, the direction at least will give a false impression. I had to drive in a thirty-mile triangle to correct this, and arrived home at about five o’clock.
&n
bsp; I was very tired and went to my bedroom to lie down. I drew the curtains and sprawled on my bed, waiting for the headache to go. But first I read the letter, trembled at what it might have told the police, and then burned it. I recognized that today I was afraid and exhausted. It was natural enough. There was not really a great deal to worry about. Tomorrow, I knew, I would see things more clearly and my nerve would be restored.
And that is what happened. I’ve written everything down here, and although it will all be over and done with when you read it, you will quickly appreciate the situation as it seemed to me on that day of the killing.
Olwen had telephoned Bushell, and I worried badly because her vague telephone call might have made Bushell suspect something – he knows me of old. But I’d forgotten that her call was made to a MrHarrison, and no doubt Bushell told her that Harrison was in Sheffield. In any case, that anxiety was relieved when I saw Bushell yesterday. The barman at the Dragon has seen Olwen and me often, but he can only give a physical description. He knows no names or addresses and I shall not go near the place again. If he saw the car he may describe it, but he knows no number, and now my car is a black saloon. Olwen’s friends, Hazel and Peggy, and perhaps her landlady, Mrs Wilson, no doubt know of my existence, but little more than that. If they know a name, it will be the one Olwen knew, the false one, and they didn’t see the car, because I never drove her home. Olwen’s parents have no knowledge of me; the letter I left in the handbag confirmed what she’d said herself.
There are other details, but I’ve accounted for them all. The main things are in my favour – the letter and film I destroyed; the false name and the lack of witnesses, not only of the deed, but of all our association. There is no ‘external’ evidence, as the police say, and no circumstantial: i.e. no one who knows me saw me in Almond Vale that day, and no one has any letters, fingerprints, etc. The Middleshire Police aren’t stupid, and if they are, the Yard man isn’t. But they’ve almost nothing to go on. I am an unknown, dark, tall man who is wanted for murder. But what the novelists and newspapers never mention is the high percentage of unsolved crimes, the near-impossibility of finding such a person, and then proving him guilty.
PART THREE
Police
Chapter One
The man standing on Platform Two stared at the shimmering horizon, watching for the smoke of the overdue express. He yawned and for a moment his sunburnt jowl slackened; he became just a middle-aged man who had stepped out of bed early on the final morning of his holiday. It had been a pleasant ten days, and he stood now on the concrete platform, aware that it was over. Like other middle-aged men, he left the seaside with reluctance. He knew that in twenty-four hours the reluctance would have been swallowed up in work; the very holiday would begin to seem unreal. But at this moment he felt nostalgic. If only one could live in this quiet town all the time! Peace was what everyone wanted. Everybody made plans for peace, prayed for it, argued for it, but waited for and expected noise, confusion, violence, enmity …
Not many people moved about – Saturdays and Sundays were the busy days, and this was a Tuesday. A faint breeze moved from the sea; there was a smell of salt, but already it was mixed with that of railway engines. It presaged normality. A bell rang somewhere and the man heard the distant clonk noise as a signal fell. One or two people hovered at the bookstall. The man read indecision in their faces: whether, being still on holiday, to surrender to the pornography, or to buy the alarming literature of normality: the problems of the day. The bright glare over everything faded slightly at the first fine, high cloud spreading across the sky. It will be stifling in London, the man thought, and as he thought it the technical voice above his head mouthed enormously the destination of the overdue express: Paddington. The man said suddenly, ‘I’ll get a paper.’
A boy of about ten said, ‘Daddy, can I have a comic?’ and the plea was taken up by a girl of about eight, his sister, ‘And me, Daddy.’
‘Will ye hurry up?’ their mother said. ‘Ye’ve been standing there for twenty minutes –’
The man grinned. ‘Wouldn’t ye like to miss the train?’
The woman said, ‘Ye know very well –’ but the man was already five long strides away. The children, still in sandals, clanked buckets and spades restlessly, impatient for the joy of travel. ‘Oo, Daddy, the train is coming.’ Round a slight bend thundered into sight the express for Paddington. It seemed to be sweating in its exhaustion. It hissed in creaking protest as its engine went by, so that the two children stepped slightly away. The woman’s tension eased as coach after coach passed by and each proved nearly empty. The twenty or so people on the platform walked leisurely in the two directions, taking a mild pleasure in this unexpected ease of entry on to a train: the last pleasure of the holiday.
A crowd of people seemed to spring from nowhere. Milk-churns were trundled along the platform. A girl wheeled a wagon, offering tea and ices and unexpected sorts of food. An old lady, escorted by three porters and a small dog, moved anxiously towards a first-class compartment. Similarly, a red-faced, vaguely military man shot out of the refreshment-room, porters rushing madly at his every decision. Some overloaded soldiers, having stepped off the train, made a gesture of forming a straight line, but, seeing the refreshment-room and the adjacent pornography, began to dump their kitbags recklessly. A porter approached the man, his wife and children. He touched his cap in a futile salute. ‘Porter, sir?’
The man declined. He picked up two heavy cases, apparently without effort, and led the way to a compartment. His wife relaxed into a corner at once. Anyone could see that she had accepted normality already. She welcomed it. It was strangeness and newness that worried her. From this could be deduced the probability that she was not worldly.
Inside the compartment the man seemed larger. He seemed too big for it. You sensed that he was more powerful than the first glance had indicated, and you wondered who and what he was. On the platform he had seemed like a businessman – big, heavy, somewhat dumpy. In the compartment you saw that his shoulders and chest were too good, too physical for an office. Perhaps he was a military man, but that did not seem probable because of his pallor. Certainly his face was tanned now, but it was easily recognizable as a face that was normally pale in colour and rough in texture. In spite of his size, you did not think the man was a policeman. You expected policemen to be rather young, and this man was within middle age.
Nevertheless, he was a policeman. His name was Andrew MacIndoe and he was a Detective Superintendent from the C.1 Branch of the C.O. (Commissioner’s Office), New Scotland Yard; a branch which is known as the Murder Squad. He was forty-eight years old, going bald, weighed fifteen stone and, perhaps because of his width, did not give an impression of being particularly tall. Also, of course, he no longer wore a uniform or helmet. We are perhaps inclined to forget that detectives are policemen whose powers are no greater than those of a constable. These powers had been explained to MacIndoe soon after he had been nominated, taken the oath before a Chief Constable, had received his appointment, a warrant card, a truncheon, a whistle, his instruction book, and had set out on a beat as his father had done before him.
As well as learning what were his powers of arrest and detention under reasonable suspicion, MacIndoe had slowly understood a great deal more: what to do in the event of a road accident; how to keep fairly dry in eight hours of pouring rain; what to do with drunken persons; how to collect useful friends (milkmen, postmen, doormen, liftmen, ex-policemen, informers); how to keep order at a football match and at the same time watch it; what to do with suspicious parcels and natural deaths; how to settle quarrels; how to find dogs; how to control crossing streams of three thousand vehicles an hour; how to stand about at elections without yawning; how to grab a quick smoke in a doorway or a public lavatory; how to control political meetings; how to handle rich motorists who presumed that their social importance granted them immunity; how to
deal with crowds at processions and strikes; and above all, how to remain calm when others were flustered. All these and other things were learned in uniform, but after three years on a beat MacIndoe had become an aide to the C.I.D. of his locality. He had been confirmed in this appointment and had risen through the ranks of police constable, C.I.D., detective sergeant second- and then first-class, detective inspector with a division, to that of chief inspector. For two years he had held his present rank. He could even now quote the Traffic Regulations and suchlike matters, but, of course, they were no longer his to attend to. Rather he sought now for tyre-marks and oil leakages, signs of forcing and entry, shreds of fabric, the shape of bloodstains, footprints and their direction, the possibility of fingerprints, blood-stained clothing and laundry-marks, debris from rivers, entries in hotel and other registers, letters and diaries – in fact, all the patient and rather wearisome accumulation of what is known as external evidence.
MacIndoe’s method was to complete the chain of external evidence (i.e. the facts and non-personal materials), so that the cross-examination of a suspected person was scarcely necessary. When it did become necessary, his usual method was to talk round the most vital subject – shunning the word ‘murder’ or ‘robbery’ or whatever it was – and before he approached it he would drop hints: ‘It’s always best to tell the truth. Then you know where you are. It looks bad if the court is convinced you’re lying. Besides, perjury is a punishable offence …’ His attitude was sympathetic and the sympathy often genuine. ‘You tell me the truth,’ he seemed to say, ‘and I’ll give you the best advice I can.’ And when the wretched, messy truth had been revealed he would say, ‘A pity, I don’t think there’s much we can do about that. It seems you’ll have to go to prison …’ This may seem an unfair, mildly hypocritical technique, but the people he dealt with had to be tricked in some degree. They consisted of liars, scoundrels, fools, robbers, lunatics, perverts, murderers – every one of them eager for any loophole, any sympathy that could be exploited, any information that could be twisted to their advantage. MacIndoe could not really afford to be absolutely sympathetic to either criminal or victim. To be sympathetic is to be prejudiced, and to be prejudiced destroys the technical advantage of impartiality. Yet in general MacIndoe was a kindly, humane man who rarely raised his voice, much less indulged in violence. His brain and his dour persistence pursued the criminal, and then his sympathy made him wish the pursuit had not succeeded. But it was as well for society that it usually did.