by James Barlow
Tears were trickling down Evelyn’s face, but, apparently unaware of them, she said, ‘You mustn’t ask me any more questions about him. If you know so much you don’t need any betrayal.’
‘All right,’ said MacIndoe. ‘May I ask about yourself? You’re not ill, are you? Ye never were mentally ill, were you?’
‘Yes,’ said Evelyn, turning to him. (She has a nice face after all, MacIndoe decided, once the proud façade has crumbled.) ‘I was ill for quite a long rime. I had a sickness that started on the day I met him. But it was a very pleasant illness at first. Then there was a crisis. We had defied my parents, you see, and we had defied God, and I thought, We’re doing fine: the rest of the world can look after itself. Nothing matters. If anything seemed to, then he would point out the flaws in it and I’d laugh. I was only twenty-three and it was nice to conquer the world with him. Until I found that I wasn’t exclusive; I was part of the world he despised; if he could have an affair with a W.A.A.F. – and two years after our marriage he did – he would do so without concern for me. I should have known when the baby died … I did know … God is not mocked. He waits and forgives for a long time because the young must be expected to be foolish for a while; and with some people you think they’re going to get away with it altogether. But they don’t. Someone they value dies; illness comes; or loneliness; or fear; they have to learn humility or fail … If only the child had lived …’
Evelyn stopped talking to struggle against the tears. The detectives stood absolutely motionless in the presence of her suffering. After a while she resumed: ‘I had a nervous break-down. My two worlds met and clashed: while he loved me and talked my mind was crucified by the knowledge of the others. When I’d recovered I came home from the hospital. I looked so well I could read the desire in his eyes. The clash occurred again. I went to my doctor and he found me organically sound – thought me a self-pitying fool, I suppose. I proceeded to a psychiatrist – after all, they were invented in conjunction with sexual freedom, weren’t they? I told him about it and said, “You see, even while I was away in hospital Roy was having an affair” (such a mature word, don’t you think, Inspector?). He said, “Well, of course, the thing to do is combat his technique. Enjoy yourself. Have an affair too. You’re not one of the Christians, are you?” It was then that I knew with unshakable conviction that Roy’s half of the world was evil. “Yes, I am,” I said, and walked out of his consulting-room. I made a very good recovery.’
‘Does he know that you know?’
‘That I know what?’
‘That you – recovered?’
‘Until you told me what that poor thing had put in her diary, I didn’t realize that Roy was so aware. One thing about Roy: he has a splendid sense of irony.’ Evelyn’s tone changed and she said in an agony that made the others squirm: ‘It’s rather amusing really. Terribly theatrical. His attitude is so careless that, without a word ever being spoken about it, he informs me all too clearly about the others. Sometimes we look at each other, both knowing, and I turn away in tears – I’m still convalescent, you see – recovery is not easy – after all, we conquered the world together. And then he’s scared – not of me, of course, but of his employer, Bushell. If I were to leave him, or if Bushell were to find out, then Roy would be sacked and his fantasy would be over … In an asylum, did the girl think I was? Here in this very room I’ve been in hell for years … I do feel awful after all this repertory. Would you mind if I had a small glass of sherry? One thing about Roy –plenty of booze. All contingencies catered for – if trouble rears its ugly head, bludgeon the senses. Simple, isn’t it, and so effective that quite soon there is no sensibility left to bludgeon – one can look at the misery of the world and think of how to extract the next pound of flesh.’ She walked across to a cabinet. ‘Perhaps you’ll have one too?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Of course. You’re on duty. All this for you is work.’
Evelyn sipped the sherry; her hands trembled all the time.
MacIndoe said, ‘It’s too late to go back, Mrs Fortescue. We can only move forward. I have to proceed with this, although I scarcely want to. Has your husband a briefcase?’
‘Yes; it’s in the other room.’
‘Could we have it?’
‘I can’t stop you.’
Baker went to fetch it. The briefcase had alphabetical compartments as the waitress at the Priory Tea Rooms had said. ‘We’d better take this,’ said MacIndoe.
Evelyn protested, ‘Now, wait a minute –’
‘You said we could have it. Who’s your dentist, Mrs Fortescue?’
‘My dentist?’
‘That is what I asked.’
‘It’s Mr Wiggins.’
‘His address?’
Evelyn gave it.
‘Is he your husband’s dentist too?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘It was just a point.’
Maddocks said, ‘Shall I go now?’ and MacIndoe nodded.
Evelyn said, ‘Where’s he going?’ but MacIndoe, instead of answering, asked, ‘Is your husband wearing white flannels?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are his other clothes here?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Would you show me his wardrobe?’
‘His wardrobe?’
‘The contents.’
‘All right. If it makes you happy.’
The bedroom was an adjoining room. MacIndoe opened the man’s wardrobe and sorted through the suits and coats until he found the flannels and the sports coat with the blue, red and brown zigzag. ‘I’ll take these,’ he said grimly. (There would be soil or dust or grass or something in the turn-ups.) ‘These may be evidence.’ The shoes with the buckle fastenings were in a compartment. ‘And these.’
Evelyn was weeping again, but without hysteria. It was a deep, despairing cry, almost like a cough: the release of a long-pent-up flow of tears: the despair of more than a decade of disastrous, one-sided marriage. ‘No, no,’ she pleaded. ‘Please don’t do that. I won’t tell him, I promise, but don’t take them away. It would mean that I had done it …’
Her tears and loyalty moved even MacIndoe, who had much experience of tears and despair. He touched her shoulder. ‘No, lassie,’ he said. ‘Ye mustn’t refuse me. This is permanent, this is beyond repair. His behaviour is normal, isn’t it? He’s gone to play tennis, hasn’t he? With a girl, d’ye think? The dead shop-girl doesn’t mean a thing to him. He imagines he’s immune, beyond reproach … Ye don’t need to be a Christian to see that that can’t be allowed. It’s against humanity. She was alive and with child and in love with him, but he killed her. It’s not something ye can dismiss with an explanation by Freud. It’s beyond repair.’
Evelyn shuddered. ‘I didn’t know it was as bad as that.’
‘What good would he be to ye now? Ye’ve done all ye could, and ye must abandon him if ye can. Ye’ve got your own life to repair. Ye’re an innocent person.’
‘I’m not!’ she cried. ‘I’m not! I knew what I was doing. Oh, God, how I wish I was.’
‘Ye know he’s done it, don’t ye?’
She said quietly, ‘Yes.’
‘Ye knew without any proofs. His mother knew too, and lied to us, pretending he was dead. Ye both know he’s guilty without hearing a word. Why? Because ye both know he’s rotten.’
Evelyn said desperately, ‘It’s not going to be easy. I thought I’d stopped loving him years ago, but it seems I haven’t.’
‘Aye. But it’s over. Go home, Mrs Fortescue. I’ve been to Biggots Aybury and your parents are longing to see you.’
Evelyn wept now without words, without awareness of their presence. She was deep in her own bitterness. MacIndoe became concerned. ‘Will ye be all right? We’ve got to leave ye.’
‘Wil
l I see him again?’
‘Not here.’
‘What shall I do?’
‘Go home as soon as ye can. Don’t do anything silly, will ye? You’re only a girl really – there’s a lot of life left yet.’
She said hopelessly, ‘Be gentle, won’t you? I mean –’
‘I know what ye mean. Ye won’t use that telephone in the hall, will ye? It wouldn’t help him.’
‘You’re going now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t betray him, did I?’
‘No.’
‘Will you tell him that?’
‘I will.’
MacIndoe went down the steps two at a time; he didn’t even wait for the lift; and he was yards ahead of Baker. The driver of the police car knew the whereabouts of the Wellington Tennis Club, and drove the vehicle furiously along the few roads to its gates. He turned the car round on the car park so that it was ready to depart without hindrance. There was no red sports car in the park.
The two detectives walked along an asphalt path, leaving the driver standing by the car. The less fuss the better, they felt. A few people in white were standing by a pavilion talking; a number of women sat in deck-chairs watching the play; the six courts were all in use. MacIndoe felt shabby and mean among so much whiteness. I must have this raincoat cleaned, he thought in a moment of detachment. Janet has told me about it at least three times. A few people stared but most carried on talking in nasal, middle-class voices.
‘He must be in the pavilion,’ said MacIndoe.
As they went up the few wooden steps someone said, ‘I say, are you members?’ but MacIndoe took no notice.
There were very few persons inside the pavilion. All the tables were laid for tea, but only three of them were occupied. A middle-aged man ate salad with two young women; his daughters perhaps. Two young men sat with two pretty girls; they laughed eagerly and their cutlery clattered. MacIndoe, in an acute state of intensity, had time to think: There is nothing that hurts God so much as the destruction of a child’s innocence. Then he felt a small tumult of emotion as he saw the wedge-shaped face of the mother’s photograph. Fortescue was sitting at a table talking to a girl in white shorts. The girl had shapely legs and embarrassingly good breasts. She was only about nineteen and her eyes, facing MacIndoe, shone in naïve reverence. You look innocent, MacIndoe thought. I hope to God you still are. Fortescue was doing the talking; he’s flattering her, MacIndoe decided, seeing the girl blush and wriggle in pleasure and self-deception. Olwen, MacIndoe thought, are you here too? D’ye see him now? D’ye understand now? He’s too handsome, lassie, to be beyond himself. They only love themselves, these do. The rest of us, staring into our mirrors and realizing our ugliness, are grateful for the love we are offered. We know only too well that we are fallible and imperfect. Still capable of detachment, he thought of Fortescue: I bet you don’t know I’ve seen your parents-in-law this morning.
He and Baker were right by the table before the eagerly talking man and girl looked up. Fortescue’s eyes shone with fear. He knew what they were.
‘Mr Fortescue?’ MacIndoe asked.
He could not lie because the girl was with him. ‘Can’t you see I’m engaged?’
‘Are you Mr Fortescue?’
‘Yes, yes. What is it?’ The man waved his left hand in nervous irritation, and MacIndoe noted the thick gold ring on one finger.
‘We are police officers,’ he said. The silence was suffocating, unbearable, so that even MacIndoe wanted to smash it. It was not the silence of St Mary’s Church, but a destructive silence. Something is different, something has ended, MacIndoe realized. It worried him. What was it? Had a clock stopped? He realized then that it was the noise of the cutlery; everybody had stopped eating to listen. ‘We’d like you to accompany us to Almond Vale police station.’
The girl tittered. ‘What a long way! Twenty miles.’
Fortescue said, ‘What on earth for?’ It still isn’t real, MacIndoe thought. He still imagines that with words he can escape it. Words have never failed before.
‘I think we’d better discuss that when we reach there.’
‘Can’t it wait until after tea?’
‘No.’
‘What about my attire? I can’t come in flannels.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘What’s it all about, anyway?’
‘The death of a girl named Olwen Hughes.’
The girl in shorts blinked heavily in shock and her mouth fell open. MacIndoe could hear her uneven breathing. Fortescue said, ‘Who’s Olwen Hughes?’
MacIndoe said with weary humour, ‘If you don’t know, the matter will soon be cleared up.’
Fortescue stood up. Vanity or courage? MacIndoe wondered. ‘I suppose that you’ll only say I’m obstructing the police if I refuse,’ Fortescue said. ‘Who’s going to bring me back?’
MacIndoe said, ‘I’ll bring you back myself if it’s possible.’
Fortescue said to the girl, ‘I say, this may be rather fun. Why don’t you come?’
The girl replied quickly – she wasn’t that naïve – ‘I can’t because I’m on in the semi-final.’
‘Wait for me,’ Fortescue said. ‘We’ll have a drink.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
The men began to walk away. Everybody at table looked down at their food; the agitation of the cutlery suddenly recommenced. Baker lingered, smiled at the girl, and said, ‘I shouldn’t wait. These things take a long time.’
Fortescue heard the words; his mouth opened to protest, but instead he walked on to the waiting car with MacIndoe.
Chapter Nine
In the moving car the police officers sat in silence. There was a crackle from the radio until MacIndoe turned the set off. The driver drove with great efficiency and speed, and only Fortescue wanted to talk. At intervals the quiet was too much for him; it was condemnatory and therefore unbearable; he was in a world without women; these were real men, not in awe of his size or his words or his amatory successes; not interested in dirty jokes; not open to persuasion by the purchase of drinks; at last he was alone, and occasionally in the face of their unspoken contempt he made remarks. ‘Oh, boy, are you going to look a fool!’ he said, but nobody really was under the illusion that MacIndoe was a fool. Then Fortescue said, ‘No wonder the rates are high. Two detectives, a car and a driver just to get one man – and that the wrong one.’ But the driver just looked ahead, concerned solely with reaching Almond Vale quickly; Baker, sitting by Fortescue, yawned; MacIndoe himself was thinking about his children. Little rogues, he thought. God, how I love them. When no comment was forthcoming from the police officers, Fortescue said, ‘How did you find me, anyway?’
MacIndoe said over his shoulder, ‘Ye’ve a number of habits.’
Fortescue seemed quite put out. ‘I have not,’ he protested. ‘That’s the one thing I haven’t got – set habits. What are they, then?’
MacIndoe did not answer aloud, and Fortescue said like a child, ‘You can’t tell me, because you don’t know.’ I know all right, MacIndoe thought, but I’m not giving you any advantages; you didn’t allow Olwen any. And this is going to be difficult enough as it is. Fortescue’s habits, he knew, were telling untruths, seducing women, and boasting in semi-lies. He’s not a fool, MacIndoe thought. His technical advantages were his callousness and his conceit. It was obvious that his thoughts now were all about himself: evasion; how far to lie; remorse was not touching him at all; it was not there to unnerve him. I’ll have to go all round it and try to trip him up. We shan’t obtain many direct answers until we’ve shown him we have brains, too, and not even then unless we put the fear of God into him. MacIndoe was thinking of his impending cross-examination. Although he had a number of proofs that Fortescue had associated with Olwen Hughes, he had nothing, unless the dent
ist could provide it, which would say to a jury, ‘This man was in the copse when Olwen died.’ (There had not been any fingerprints found on the camera.) He had a number of proofs (not yet tried out, though) which could be given to the director of prosecutions – the most fatal of them being Carter and the waitress in Almond Vale – but even then a jury might acquit Fortescue by virtue of insufficient evidence. One was not permitted to tell the jury about the mother’s lies, or the tears of Fortescue’s wife, or the unhappiness of the priest, or the cruelty revealed in Olwen’s diary which had also stared at him from the photograph in the living-room; and one was not allowed to explain one’s own emotions and conviction that this was the man. One had to answer in the non-opinionated legal ‘yes’ and ‘no’ language; in the end justice was operated by those with the gift of dialogic manoeuvrability. One had to present proofs and admissions, and even then a good counsel for the defence could do damage to them. It was impartial; it was fair; yet it was not always satisfactory. Sometimes one decided that justice had no relationship to truth, but was evolved by trickery, coincidence and the payment of fees. One had the feeling that the machine was only good and usable because it was operated by honourable men.
However, all that belonged to other people. As a detective, his job was to obtain evidence, witnesses and the accused person; and he could cross-examine that accused person providing he used no persuasion, violence, threats, maltreatment by exhaustion – in fact, providing he treated him all the time as though the wrong person had been captured, as though he was innocent.
His cross-examination began shortly after their arrival in Almond Vale. Baker and two constables were also present; Maddocks had not yet returned. Fortescue sat in a chair at the other side of Maddocks’ desk. He leaned back in exaggerated confidence, crossed one leg over the other and put both hands in his pockets.
MacIndoe said, ‘What is your name?’