‘You won’t have to twist anything,’ she assured me, blandly interrupting. ‘You had your go at blurring the issue at the trial, and now I want it all laid out. Crystal clear. I want you to prove that I didn’t do it. If the only way to do that is for you to produce the one who did, then that’s what you’ve got to do.’ She nodded emphatically. So there!
‘Got to?’ I asked, very quietly.
‘You owe me that.’
‘Hmm!’ I said.
The truth was that it was to myself that I owed it, assuming that I had got it all wrong, the first time. I would need to reach very deeply into my memory, and attempt to discover a completely new scenario in which to place the death of her husband’s mistress, Sylvia Thomas, and then eventually I would be in a position to shout out to all who might be interested: ‘I was a clumsy, stupid oaf, who bungled it the first time.’ It was not a pleasant prospect to have to contemplate.
The only thing I could think of which might persuade her that she was proposing an impossible task for me, was to remind her of a selection of the points of evidence against her. And first, I had to locate her at the scene of the murder of Sylvia Thomas. We both had to think back ten years.
‘Your car was seen on that parking patch.’ This was a try-on. Nobody had claimed that they had seen her car.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ she said sharply. ‘And anyway —think back to it. I’d bet anything you like that nobody could’ve even seen that parking patch from the houses. Don’t you remember the weather, Mr Patton? Don’t you? The visibility.’
I smiled. Yes, I remembered it. And she was quite correct. It had been a terrible day, and an even more terrible evening, once it became really dark. And Connie had claimed that, although her intention had been to visit Sylvia Thomas, to introduce herself as Harry’s wife and to warn her off, the weather had prevented her from carrying it through. We didn’t believe her. She had said she had driven off the road and on to that terrible parking area, when there was a proper lay-by only a couple of hundred yards away, which she could have used. And that she had tried to park her Beetle on the extensive earth patch used for parking, and had trouble with the muddy surface. She hadn’t dared to stop, she had claimed. We didn’t believe her. The visibility, I recalled, was perhaps four or five feet, with pelting rain, and not a light penetrating that rain curtain, anywhere. But she could, with determination, have parked only a hundred yards from Sylvia Thomas’s house, rain and muddy conditions notwithstanding, if she had already driven there—although the appalling weather would have made it very difficult.
All this had been brought up at the trial, and she had not been believed. There seemed no point in arguing about it now, so I tried another angle.
‘There had been cigarettes smoked in Sylvia Thomas’s kitchen. And your husband, Harry, didn’t smoke cigarettes. Sylvia did, yes, but not Harry.’
‘He does now.’
It was irrelevant. ‘They were the brand you smoked, Benson and Hedges. That was the point I wished to make.’
She lifted her head. The smile she offered was one of complete confidence. But she had had a long while to think this through, and had prepared herself for anything I might query.
‘So did she,’ she claimed. ‘His mistress—she smoked them, too.’
‘And how do you know that?’ I asked, very casually because it was a trick question. She had claimed that she had never come face to face with Sylvia Thomas, had only seen her across the saloon bar in sundry pubs. Perhaps she had seen Sylvia smoking there.
‘Because,’ she said, so demurely and so confidently, ‘my precious husband pocketed a full pack of my cigarettes, on the evening when he said he was going to his office to finish checking an account—the liar. I phoned his office half an hour later, giving him time to get there, and got no reply. From either of them. He’s got offices in Bridgnorth and Wolverhampton, you know. Damn it, Mr Patton, it was the insult in it, the insult to my intelligence. He treated me as though I was stupid. As you’ll no doubt remember,’ she continued, after she had mastered a severely bubbling anger, ‘he smoked a pipe, the same as you. But did you pick up that point? You did not. No…let me say this.’ She held up a palm. ‘Once and for all. He had the utter gall to take my cigarettes for that mealy-mouthed bitch. Certainly not for himself, that’s what I’m trying to get across to you.’
‘All right. All right.’ We were wandering far away from the point at issue, which was whether I was prepared to look into the case again, and it was beginning to seem that I was already trapped into conceding. And in fact there had been the remains of three Benson and Hedges cigarettes in an ashtray at Sylvia Thomas’s home. I could see them now.
My memory is not at its best for words or numbers or facts; it is mainly visual. Sitting at my desk and reporting a motor vehicle accident, I could recall a clear picture of the scene. But the names and addresses of the people involved—no. For that I would have to resort to my notebook.
And now, my memory recording an image of that ashtray in Sylvia Thomas’s kitchen, I knew I would have to go along with Connie’s wishes, much as I might detest the idea.
‘Very well,’ I said to Connie, laying on a tone of reluctance. ‘I’ll have another look at it.’
‘The whole case?’ asked Connie eagerly, because she hadn’t expected to be able to persuade me. I caught Amelia’s eye, and registered her disapproval, then turned back to face Connie.
‘You said you’re back at the same house, with your son and his woman friend. Your own bungalow, if I remember it correctly.’
‘Yes.’ And now Connie was whispering, caught by the wonder that she had managed to persuade me, if only so far as to show interest.
‘And your husband—Harry? Ex-husband, rather.’
‘He’s living with his latest woman. Jean Clarke. It’s her flat, really. And oh—you’ve got to laugh. I went to visit them. I need to weigh up his attitude, which, if you must know, was a bit cool. And she—this Jean—she hid herself behind a chair. She’s quite safe. I didn’t kill Sylvia Thomas, so I’m not likely to start killing his new women. He keeps swapping around, you see.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Now you’re out of prison, they’ll all be nervous.’
And Connie laughed aloud. It was not a very good laugh, but it had probably had little exercise in the past few years.
‘Well,’ she said now, levering herself to her feet, ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ As though she had upset us. ‘You wouldn’t like to lend me one of your dogs? No? Pity. Never mind …I’ll get one from a breeder I met inside. She’s very lucky to have a daughter who’s kept her kennels operating. How lovely for her. Such a lovely daughter! I’ll find my way out. Don’t trouble…’
But Mary was already troubling, holding the door open.
I got to my feet. You have to be polite. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Then, Amelia seeming disinclined to remove herself from her chair, I went out with Connie, to see her off. To myself I had to admit it was a pleasure to watch her go, but I knew I hadn’t seen the end of it. I could not blankly refuse to carry out her wishes. Not now. And in any event, if I had been wrong about Connie’s guilt, then I wanted to be the first to know.
I watched as Connie drew on her driving gloves. The Beetle looked as though it would be draughty. I didn’t wave as she started the engine and drove away, but simply turned and walked back into the house, finding that Amelia had come to watch and was pouting her disapproval on the doorstep.
‘Well…’ she said. ‘Now you’ve gone and got yourself involved in another ridiculous and unpleasant investigation. And don’t look like that, Richard. You’re pleased, really. Admit it. Something for you to do. The last time, you said it would be the last. How could you, Richard? How could you?’
‘Well…’ I tried to smile. ‘I’ve already come across one detail that I misinterpreted during the original investigation, my love. And that might not be the last detail to find.’
‘What detail?’ Amelia demanded c
autiously.
‘Well—you know my memory’s mainly visual…’
‘You’re always saying that.’
‘It is, though. And even now, after all this time, I can get a clear image of that ashtray on the corner table in the kitchen, where Sylvia Thomas—the mistress who was murdered—where she was found.’
‘Yes, Richard…don’t keep reminding me.’
‘I can see it now. That ashtray, full of squashed-out cigarettes.’
‘And? Do get to the point, Richard.’
‘And, my love, they were all squashed out, and you saw what Connie did—and said she’d always done—when she wanted to put out a cigarette, even before she went to prison. She pinched it out—and in that ashtray there were no pinched-out cigarettes. Such a minor thing, but I missed it at that time. So…doesn’t it sound, now, as though she could have been innocent, after all, and that she’d not even been there—as she claimed.’
‘Richard!’ she said, a little forcefully. ‘You’re always doing that…letting yourself be persuaded! Now…the clue of the squashed cigarettes! You are the limit. You’re always twisting things around until you can see what you want to see.’
‘But it isn’t just that,’ I protested. ‘You get a discrepancy like this—and she couldn’t have thought it up herself and planned to use it—you’ve met her now. What d’you make of her? Naïve? That, certainly enough. Not too intelligent? That’s surely established. But if she didn’t kill Sylvia Thomas, then there’s been a terrible miscarriage of justice, and based on my own evidence. How can I possibly refuse to go ahead with it?’
‘By saying no.’ But Amelia couldn’t conceal the hint of a smile.
‘I can’t say no to myself, love. There’s doubt—I’d never rest.’
‘Richard!’ She touched my arm, raised herself on to her toes, and kissed me on the end of my nose. ‘You’re a gullible fool, and I love you…and when do we start?’
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